Days in a Year
by Morning Lilies
Summary: A patchwork year snatching days from all across time. From Marauders to the next generation, everything in between, and maybe a lot before. A ficlet a day. December 3, Teddy manages to cheer Harry up for the Holidays.
1. January 1

**A/N: Yes, I'm starting another story. Yes, it's foolish of me because I keep banging on about all the things I have to do and how little time I have to do them. Yes, I struggle with self-control when it comes to challenges. But this is the last one, I swear! :) **

**But this one's different! I know they all say that, but really it is. It's one of those drabble-a-day things. I'll try to update every day using a prompt word from the 366 days challenge on the HPFC. Each chapter will likely be unconnected and shorter than 700 words. In fact, this one is likely going to be on the long side. It's my addiction to vocabulary that really got me this time. I want to learn new words! **

**But I hope you enjoy these random little pieces all the same, which are different from my snapshot story, I assure you (shorter and unrestricted to any specific time like that one is), and I hope the daily exercise improves my writing. Okay, all finished explaining. Hope you like it. **

_Novation__: the introduction of something new; innovation_

**January 1, 2000**

"I've never spent new year's day in a pub, before," said Neville, leaning against the bar. "New year's eve, sure, but I've always been gone by the morning."

Ron heaved himself up on the edge of a table. "You've only been out of school for one other New Year's."

"I've never served drinks to fifty people at once," Hannah said, wiping a damp rag along the sticky wooden surface of the bar and still looking flushed from the night before.

"I've never proposed a law to the entire department before," Hermione said from her position at a back table, papers spread out around her and a slightly hysteric look already on her face.

"You've never taken a holiday off, either, have you?" Ron asked, dropping heavily into the chair beside her,

"I've never been engaged before," Harry said dazedly, seated on the bottom steps that led up to the rooms above.

"That happened like a week ago, mate," Ron called, rolling his eyes. "Old news."

"This time next year, I'm going to have a wife!" Harry called back, eyes wide and almost frantic.

"Not the expression you want to see on your fiancé's face when he thinks about being married to you," Ginny muttered, rolling over from where she was sprawled before the flickering fire.

"I've never been to New Guinea before," Luna said dreamily, lying opposite Ginny on the rug.

"So let's drink to it," Seamus said a bit drunkenly, crawling out from underneath a table. "New celenium, new mentury, all that…."

"I think we're done with drinks for a while," said Dean, pulling his friend to his feet and steadying him.

"Aw, come on, one more for the road," Seamus whined. "Look, I haven't had one drop all year!"

In the end, Hannah found a bottle of Fire Whiskey, poured nine mouthfuls, and they gathered round the bar and raised their glasses.

"To the new year," Seamus said jovially.

"To a new job," Hannah added, looking fondly around her great uncle's old pub.

"To changing the legal system," Ron grinned, squeezing Hermione's shoulders.

"To getting married," said Harry, exchanging the briefest of smiles with his fiancé tucked under his arm, all the apology and reassurance either ever needed from the other passing in the gesture.

"To a new tradition," Neville chimed in, linking his arm through Hannah's an blushing when she winked at him.

"To introducing ourselves to a new world," Luna finished.

And the clink of their glasses cemented the moment.

**A/N: I'm attempting to restrain myself from so many A/N's in this story, but I do need to add that since I started this on the first of February, I've got a month to catch up on when I find a moment. So new chapters will focus on February words, but occasionally an update will be added to January (like this one). **

**Anyway, read and review, yes? :D**


	2. January 2

Truss: to tie, bind, or fasten.

**January 2, 1998**

Harry sat in the tent's mouth, the bitter winter wind stinging his face, the dim heat of Hermione's little bluebell flames at his back. He fiddled with a rubber band that had been around the Muggle newspaper they had nicked that morning, pulling it so far the rubber began to grow course and ripple, then letting it go. It snapped back to a perfect circle with a ping.

Hermione was sitting beside the bowl of flames behind him, poring over a book with her lips pursed like they'd been for so long. Ron was a few yards away, scouring the brush aimlessly, every now and then a guilty look coming across his face.

Harry looped the rubber band around three of his fingers and stretched it as far as it would go. After a moment of straining, the tension threatening to break it all together, the band flew off the tips of his fingers and snapped back into its original form. He wrapped it around his three fingers again, tight enough this time to make his fingertips go numb. Each time he tried to stretch the band now, it only held them all the tighter.

It held them all the tighter.

Countless nights Harry had listened to Hermione cry herself to sleep. Hermione had been witness to his deepest grief, seen him in his weakest moment, heard his bitterest resentments. Ron had saved his life, pulled him half-naked from icy depths. Harry had been privy to his darkest fears and deepest vulnerabilities. Ron had done the worst thing he could: left. And now he was back.

What more could they do to stretch the band?

They were tied, bound, fastened by these nightmares and laughter, shames and forgiveness in a way that would always be unique, even among all the others they loved so much. They had been since a troll prowled the school on Halloween six years before. And each time they were pulled apart, they snapped back together.

_Ping!_

**A/N: I love Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I'll leave it at that. :) please review! Let me know what you think because I love that almost as much as the trio! **


	3. January 3

_Solecism__: a breach of good manners or etiquette._

**January 3, 1970**

It was cold. Icy spray from the nearly-but-not-quite-frozen lake whipped into her face as she stood on a slippery rock jutting out into the iron-gray water. It was cold, but Andromeda Black was used to cold. She didn't even shiver as the winter gale tugged at her cloak, made her long, thin brown braid jerk like a fish's tale. It was warmer out here, alone in the wintery grounds than beside the roaring fire in the Slytherin common room, listening to Cissy's simpering voice relating with pride Bella's latest accomplishments to Lucius Malfoy, watching his cold eyes as he nodded his head with satisfaction at the news.

She was warmer out here as fragile snowflakes began to fall than she had been all holiday, herded with her sisters from one gloomy old family home to the next, surrounded by people who could speak of condemnation and torture over pudding. She hardly felt human listening to those things.

A soft whistling and the crunch of snow alerted her to someone's approaching, but Andromeda didn't look round. If they saw her face, she was worried they might just think she had indeed been turned to ice. That was how she felt, but not because of the wind and snow.

"Well, if it isn't Dandy-Andy," a mellow, genial voice said.

Ted Tonks stopped beside her on the lakeshore, hands in his pockets and his blue and bronze scarf flapping around his face. His blond hair looked like brass under the weak January sun.

He was a seventh year and a Muggle-born who, for some reason, migrated _towards _a sixth year Slytherin bearing one of the most prejudiced pure-blood names of the Wizarding world. He had plenty of other friends – you couldn't help but like Ted Tonks – but there was something about her cool indifference and sharp wit that seemed to amuse him. He never grew tired of seeing her reaction to being called "Dandy-Andy".

But today she did not react at all. His cheerful smile slipped a little.

"What brings you out to admire the lake on this fine winter morning, Dromeda?" he asked, rocking back on his heels.

She took a moment to respond, keeping her gray eyes fixed on the churning lake. "Are Muggles cruel to each other for things they can't control like parentage or the social class they're born into?"

If Ted was taken aback, he didn't show it.

"Well, yes, they are," he told her slowly. "I think prejudice exists in people no matter where you go."

The last little bit of her that had managed to survive the holidays froze solid with the rest. So it was not just here, among wizards like her family. It was everywhere. There was no way to escape it. It was the whole world that was cold.

Beside her, Ted stirred. "What's got you thinking about that?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She barely heard.

A twittering came from Ted's pocket. Andromeda looked around reflexively to see a little gray bird peeking out of his coat.

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you," Ted told the bird in his mellow, reassuring voice, carefully pulling the little feathered thing out of its warm place in his coat and nesting it in his hands. "I was going to take you to Hagrid, but I suppose I can sort you out myself. It doesn't seem too bad."

He touched one of the bird's wings and it quivered. Andromeda noticed that several of the feathers were bent. Ted pulled out his wand, paused with the tip hovering over the bird for a moment as he concentrated, then waved it. The feathers smoothed and the wing straightened. The bird gave a few experimental flaps, trilled once, and launched itself skyward off his palm, fluttering away to the nearest tree.

Ted watched it with a small smile. Andromeda watched him with a stragne expression. Then, quite without warning, she flung herself into his warm arms and kissed him right on the mouth. No preamble, no subtlety, no manners or etiquette involved at all for the first time in her life. And to her surprise, his arms wrapped around her, lifted her off the ground. And all Andromeda knew was that Ted Tonks, from his straw-colored hair to his mellow voice, was warm, and she had been frozen by the world.

**A/N: You can't have a series like this without a little romance (although it is not my forte, I'll admit) and this word simply begged for a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I tried something with Draco at first, but it wouldn't go very far. I liked this better :) I'm a big fan of the trio and their generation and the Potter kids, too, especially, but I'm guessing that if I get all 366 of these, I'll be all over the board.**

**Right, please review! :) **


	4. January 4

_Fetial__: concerned with declarations of war and treaties of peace._

**January 4, 1975**

An audible whoosh of breath preceded the speech crackling over wirelesses all across the nation. In that one sound there was carried years of resistance and denial and now finally a defeated sort of resignation. That one breath was what caught the listeners' attention. They had known this was coming for a long time, even if they had not wanted to believe it. But that breath resonated through England like the final thud of a fallen sentinel.

"The Minister formally announced today that a declaration of war has been made against the terrorist band calling itself the Death Eaters. Membership or aid to this group is now made punishable by law and such people declared an enemy of the public. Aurors are being tasked with the primary goal of subduing members of this group and their leader. All Ministry departments are now in wartime operations. A code orange security warning is being issued on the public. All civilians should take safety precautions and security measures at all times…."

The voice crackled on and on over the speakers of nearly ever wireless in the country.

In a small farmhouse in Devon, Molly Weasley clutched her two-year-old son to her chest and stared wide-eyed out the window. Her husband was paler than she'd ever seen him and their five-year-old looked between them with frightened eyes.

In a small, neat home hundreds of miles away, Ted Tonks took his wife's hand, and they watched their small daughter sleep peacefully on the living room rug, rainbow hair fanned around her like halo.

In the fourth year boys' dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, four boys stared at each other with uncharacteristically grim faces. Down in the common room, students murmured in shocked, scared voices. Lily Evans and Mary McDonald looked at each other with horror plain in their expressions.

In the Slytherins' dungeon common room satisfied expressions floated calmly like blossoms on a smooth, sinister lake. Severus Snape sat in a corner, sallow face expressionless, but hunger evident in his black eyes. A chance to finally be on top… to make them pay….

In the staff room teachers sat still and silent as statues, not even moving to give each other looks of fear or determination. Up in the headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore observed the many silver instruments glinting around the room as though fascinated by them, but there was a fierce, blazing power in his bright blue eyes that seemed strong enough to pin a man to the wall had there been anyone around.

Week sunlight pushed its way through gray clouds, but the entire country could feel the storm bearing down on them.

**A/N: This took me a while to come up with, which is ridiculous because it's basically the plot line of the whole series, that word. But now it's out of the way and I'm feeling a bit relieved. **

**It would make my whole entire day if you could tell me what you thought about this chapter! Really want to know if I pulled it off. :) **


	5. January 5

_Gasconade__: Extravagant boasting; boastful talk. _

**January 5, 1970**

Green was a poisonous color. Crammed onto a bench with Regulus at the end of the long table, surrounded by the insidious color, the insidious creature, the insidious, oily talk of his mother and father, aunts and uncles, it dawned on Sirius Black that green was a poisonous color, and silver a cold one. The long table was draped in silken emerald, festooned with silver. The walls were hung with tapestries of snakes, all green and silver, slithering and undulating grotesquely. Metallic serpents wound around the gothic candle holders, coiled around the chandlers, hissed from doorknobs.

"It's a nasty job, to be sure, but it must be done, for the sake of our society," Grandfather Pollux was saying as he sipped his goblet of elf-made wine.

"Bella is a savior to the Wizarding World," Grandmother Irma hailed, her eyes glinting with steely pride.

"It isn't pretty," Uncle Cygnus grunted. "There's a lot who condemn her. Say they're going too far"

"They deserve what they get," Aunt Druella hissed venomously. "If they had stayed where they belong, we wouldn't need to put them back in their place. Do not challenge that which is lethal to you."

And Regulus beside him soaked up every word until they ran through his veins, too. Poisonous. Green was the color of poison. And perhaps black was, too.

**A/N: Alright, not a perfect match to the word, and a super short one, but there you have it: the disenchantment of Sirius Black. Well, to be fair, he was not very enchanted to begin with. Alas. **


	6. January 10

_Paregmenon__: the juxtaposition of words that have a common derivation, as in "sense and sensibility."_

**January 10, 1963**

The landscape was dead. The apple trees stood white as bone, their bare, twisted branches stabbing the iron gray sky as if frozen in battle. The ground was hard with frost, but the snow had long been washed away by driving rain. Through the orchard, a great stone manor house loomed.

A little girl sat primly on a stump in the middle of the apple trees as if it were a throne. Her platinum hair was wound into a wreath of plates around her head and she wore a disdainful expression as she gazed out at her realm.

"Why must we sit out here in the _woods_ while Mother's inside?" she demanded in a whine.

"Because, Narcissa," her older sister said quietly, not taking her eyes from the lit drawing room window of the manor. "Father's business with Mr. Lestrange is very important, and we're not to get in his way."

"Then _why _did he bring us?" Narcissa pouted.

"To look pretty," another girl supplied, standing up from the brush and pushing her messy brown braid out of her face only to have the wind whip it back against her cheek.

"Andromeda," the oldest girl snapped. She stood with her back to her sisters, long black hair streaming down her back and her black cape billowing. She couldn't have been more than eleven years old, but she stood statuesque, as if she'd witnessed a thousand winters here in this orchard. Her expression was as cold as marble.

"Well, it's true," Andromeda defended, picking her way over to her sisters. She nudged Narcissa to make room on the stump for her, but Narcissa crossed her legs and gave her a sour look.

"It is not," Bellatrix said calmly. Something at the base of a tree a few meters away had finally caught her attention. She paced over to it. "We are here to demonstrate the nobility of the Ancient House. If you ever wish to have a future in this world, you'll do as Father instructs and act properly."

"What are you looking at?" Narcissa quarried. She made to slip off her throne, glanced at Andromeda, and planted herself more firmly in the middle of it, craning her neck to see what Bellatrix was crouching over.

"A cardinal," Bellatrix reported.

Forgetting about the stump, her sisters flocked to either side of her.

"It's _lovely_," Narcissa exclaimed delightedly, reaching for the bird's ruby plumage.

"It's hurt," Andromeda noted, grabbing Narcissa's hand sharply. Narcissa snatched her wrist away, looking reproachful. Andromeda leaned forward to get a closer look at the bird's bent wing. "We should bring it to the house to see if Father will mend it."

Bellatrix had picked up a stick and was turning it over in her fingers. "Father's busy," she said, watching the bird trying to hop away from , as if she were trying to lure it toward her, she reached out with her stick. But instead of offering it to the bird, she jabbed it into the cardinal's injured wing. The bird gave a shrill cry and Bellatrix's lips twitched up.

"What are you doing?" Andromeda demanded, outraged. She tried to push her sister out of the way, but Bellatrix shouldered her aside, poking the bird again.

"Bella, you're hurting it!" Narcissa wailed.

Bellatrix ignored her, too. She snapped her stick in two, running the pad of her thumb against the jagged end she'd created, and poked again. The bird flapped its wing uselessly. It was cornered between them and the tree.

"Bellatrix, stop!" Andromeda begged, trying to get the stick from her.

"It's just a bird, Andy, what do you care?" she drawled, pressing the jagged piece of wood into the bird's side.

"Why do you have to hurt it?" Narcissa whispered tearfully, but she couldn't tear her horrified gaze away.

"It deserves it. It was stupid enough to get itself injured _and _to be spotted by something more powerful than it. It will be dead soon enough. Besides, what else are we to do while we wait?"

She reached for the quivering scarlet creature, but before she could touch it a heavy rock sailed over her shoulder. It landed on the bird with a sickening, crunching thud.

Narcissa made a choking sound and burst into tears. Bellatrix turned on her heal to gaze steadily at Andromeda, who stood a few feet behind her, brushing her hands off on her cloak, jaw set.

"Hush, Narcissa," Andromeda said, her voice quavering slightly. "It can't be hurt anymore. Bellatrix is right, sometimes there are things you can't mend."

She looked up into her sister's dark eyes. Bellatrix appraised her stoically.

"We may yet share roots," she said.

**A/N: Um… hi. So, I'm back. First year of college done, woohoo! Finally getting round to filling in January. Right, well, this is for alohamora080 who asked for a little of the sisters' Black way back around the actual January 10. Hope she's still keeping an eye on this story to read it. Well, anyway, I'm going to attempt to update daily again now that school's out. We'll see how that goes. If you're still reading, thank you so very much for your patience. While you're here, maybe you could leave me a review? Oh, and I put up a new poll on my profile. Check out my stories to come section and vote for which one you'd like to see first! **

**Love you all and hopefully I'll be back soon!**


	7. February 1

_Doyenne:__ A woman who is the senior member of a group, class, or profession. _

**February 1, 2019**

A black vale draped over the back of a chair. A silver clock ticked softly on its shelf, filling the room with its reminder that time marches onward. That every era must end, no matter how dramatic or important or long. That though it could be battled into hourglasses and clicking gears and tolling bells, time would always hold mastery over man, not the other way around.

A shadow crossed the desk, flowing through the foggy, winter-morning light. Old, wrinkled hands slowly took up the black vale. Carefully measured footsteps made their way to the window. Eyes, still piercing after all these years, looked out across the snowy grounds. They drifted over the beautiful pine trees, the frozen ripples of the iron-gray lake just visible to the south, the sentinel goal posts of the Quidditch pitch silhouetted in the rosy sky, and finally landed on the small procession winding its way ceremoniously down the icy lane and the shiny black box it bore.

Breath caught, a single tear splashed to the carpet, and one quiet allotted sob sounded in the room.

It had taken over sixty years, sixty-two and two months to be exact, but the moment had finally arrived. Minerva McGonagall, who had spent well over half her life in these walls, was now the last of her generation here. Pomona had retired more than ten years before, Horace long before that. Sybil was now more batty than sane these days. But Filius had stayed solidly at her side for so long. Her last guide and confidante. The last who could sit by the fireside with her and remember a time before Voldemort had ever been heard of.

Oh, the new teachers were more than competent, offered sound advice and good company. Lancing was sensible and perceptive, Bridwell the stern hand to keep things in line, Mervine the subtle, patient guide. And Longbottom had certainly come into his own. She could not have been prouder.

But there was a comfort and kinship with those who could quietly recall what it was like to watch student after student go out into the world and be struck down by others you had instructed along-side them, perhaps even with spells you had taught them. There was a loneliness in being the only one left to know such things. The oldest soul in the room. And she wondered how Albus had done it so long.

She turned from the window and began making her slow way across the tower room that had been hers for twenty years but which sometimes still felt like she was only keeping it safe. She passed the reports on her desk detailing Potter and Weasley's latest hijinks, McMillian's transcripts under consideration for the Hufflepuff prefect position next year, a copy of the morning _Prophet _featuring a new act headed by Miss Granger – Weasley now, but she would always think Granger.

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of her office behind the gargoyle, alone in this new era and a last link to times long past.

**A/N: Please read and review! :)**


	8. February 2

_Peroration: __A long speech characterized by lofty and often pompous language._

**February 2, 1999**

He had never been charming like Bill, never witty like the twins. Charlie was pure force in everything he did, Ginny was something else entirely, and even little Ronnie made a name for himself on pure heart. Percy was not like them. All he had ever done was talk.

He talked above the noise of all his siblings to get his mother's attention. He talked on and on at school about whatever he could think of because if he didn't he would fade into the background and be swallowed up by oblivion. He babbled around Penelope in the hopes that if he said everything, eventually he would hit upon something she liked because there was no other way he had to catch a girl's eye. He wasn't smooth or athletic or funny or even particularly handsome (whatever his mother said), and he knew it. He talked his way through his interview at the Ministry and wormed his way up the ladder by never shutting up.

Because the thing is, when you haven't got anything else worth noticing, talking ceaselessly is the only way to make sure you aren't forgotten. And the more he heard the things he kept on saying, the more he became invested in them, in their importance, and then his importance.

His life stretched before him, and suddenly it seemed to Percy that it had been one very long, self-important speech, repeated over and over again. I'm the best because… you should listen to me because… I'm successful because… I'm right because….

And suddenly the podium seemed too cluttered with papers and words that were nothing but the same tune he had always sung, and a voice, a raucous, grinning, mischievous voice was telling him to shut up, was pretending to snore through his words, was cutting him off with a bored 'get to the point, Perce'. The wind that had filled him since he could talk seemed to peter out, leaving behind a bunch of deflated phrases. And between all their sagging shells, real things that had been hidden by the stilted things finally came into the light.

Percy Weasley, master of the long lofty speech, swept all the papers from the podium and fixed the assembled audience with a new, level gaze. It took less than five minutes for him to say everything that needed to be said, but it was the most meaningful oration he had ever given.

Life was too short, to wild, too unpredictable to waste time saying things no one was listening to. Saying things you didn't mean. Saying things you would regret. All he had was talking, and if he flooded that with puffed-up sound, he would have nothing at all.

**A/N: Okay, so this one might be slightly boring, but how could peroration be anything but Percy? Thanks for reading anyway and please please please share your thoughts with me. A huge thanks to all two of my reviewers so far! You guys rock! :) **


	9. February 3

_Excogitate:__ To think out; devise; invent_

**February 3, 1992**

_Where is it, where is it, where is it! _

Hermione Granger was not the sort of person who misplaced things. All of her books were arranged by subject and author. Her clothes were neatly folded and (at least her Muggle things) arranged by color and seasonal use, every sock and mitten accounted for. Her notes were all chronological and sorted by subject. And her homework was _always _filed in order of completion then due date.

So it made absolutely no sense that the Charms essay she had finished a week ago was not in her bag, nor her Charms book, nor anywhere in her trunk. In twelve hours she had to hand in a foot and half about security charms and right now she had about a foot and half less than she'd had yesterday. _Where _could it be!

In desperation, Hermione flung an old Oxford sweatshirt out of her trunk that she knew she hadn't touched since she'd arrived at school five months before. It did not reveal her Charms homework, but a small purple journal that had been tucked in the folds of the sweatshirt tumbled to the floor with a thump. Hermione bent to retrieve it. Little white flowers spread across the fabric cover and in black marker in the corner marked the book as '91-'92.

With a small burst of recognition, Hermione realized what it was: the little journal her parents had given her for her twelfth birthday, as they had every year since she had started school. They'd given it to her early so she could take it to school with her, but Hermione hadn't opened it once this year. A small rush of guilt flooded her. It had been a point of personal pride that Hermione had recorded her thoughts, schedules, and academic advances on a relatively regular basis every year since she'd been able to write well enough to do so. Normally she had had plenty of time to spend scribbling away in a journal. She had usually done it at lunch at her old primary school to make eating alone less awkward.

Her homework crisis momentarily forgotten, Hermione flipped the little book open, smiling a little at the smell of fresh paper. Most of the lilac pages were blank, covered with neat, enticing lines with elegant little flowers in the corners. But she had filled the first page with smooth, looping script. She remembered it now, the plan for the school year she had written out the night before getting on the Hogwarts Express.

It began with getting to know the Prefects and older students in order to get tips on studying and the curriculum and rules, getting placed in a house, showing her teachers what sort of student she was. Then it went on to list each area of study she wanted to focus on in her spare time to better understand the Wizarding world.

Hermione shook her head, smiling amusedly at her own overzealousness. Half of these things she couldn't hope to study for at least another year or two. Why had she ever thought she would need to tackle the Wizarding court system in her first year? She hadn't followed half of the plan she'd derived for herself. She hadn't even kept up with her journal! Hogwarts was far too busy and interesting to keep up.

But it was the goals listed at the bottom that this plan was supposed to lead up to that really caught her eye. She had put them at the bottom of her plans for the past two or three years.

Be a model student

Try to make friends

A nostalgic sort of feeling spread through her as she thought of the girl who had written that. It had only been five months ago, but somehow it felt almost like a different lifetime. She snorted softly as she ran a finger along the first goal. Before it had been the only one she achieved. Little did she know that the second would make the first impossible. At least in her case. If she hadn't given up her model studentship when she'd lied to her teachers about going after a troll, it had flown out the window when she'd set a professor's robes on fire.

But she found the thought didn't disappoint her at all, now. Something the girl who had written those goals all those months ago could never have predicted. Looking back on it, her priorities had been all wrong. She should have put those goals in the opposite order.

Still smiling slightly, she shut the book and tossed it back into her trunk. Maybe one of her friends knew what she'd done with her essay. She thought she'd go ask them.

As it turned out, Hermione Granger was not good at sticking to long-term plans. But with friends like hers, how could anyone really blame her?

**A/N: A bit on the longer side, but as it turns out, I'm not good at saying things quickly. :) I've wanted to do something like this for a while now with Hermione, so I got a bit carried away. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are all great, really really great! :D**


	10. February 4

_Caprice:__ A sudden, unpredictable change, as of one's mind or the weather. _

**February 4, 1977**

It started out an unusually warm and sunny day for early February. After such a long, dark winter, very few could hold themselves back from rushing outside to smell the melting snow and feel the sun on their faces at last. Her long, blonde hair fluttered in the pleasantly cool breeze as they walked hand-in-hand through the park. It was a rare moment of light for them in a storm that seemed it might never let up.

They reached a stone bench beside the bare branches of a maple tree and sat down. A fountain played not far away, and the sound of children laughing running about drifted to them. He put his arm around her shoulders and she rested her head on his chest. It was so pleasant in that moment. They could pretend that maybe everything would be okay after all.

He fingered her left hand as she talked about her mother's latest letter, about some of the trivial gossip that was drifting around the office, about whatever wouldn't ruin this peace. He wondered what her hand would like with a ring there. It wouldn't be extravagant – he couldn't afford much – but he didn't think she would mind simple.

The breeze suddenly turned vicious. A wind tore over them, whipping her hair into her face, freezing them through their jacket. They both looked up. The puffy white clouds had turned gray, began gathering like ominous battleships bearing down on them. They jumped up and began to hurry back along the path, catching hands once more as the wind battled them.

Because of course, what peaceful moment could last?

**A/N: This was Frank and Alice Longbottom (well, soon-to-be Longbottom, anyway). It seemed to flow better if I neglected to slip in their names, and also I think moments like this could have applied to just about any young couple in that time. But it was Frank and Alice in this bit. Pretty short, sorry! Please please please review anyway! I really need the feedback! And keep an eye out for updated January chapters. I added the 3****rd**** and it would be great to know what you thought of that one, too! :)**


	11. February 5

_Pied:__ Having patches of two or more colors, as various birds and other animals_

**February 5, 2019**

Two scarves hung over the wardrobe door, one deep, emerald green embossed with a silvery serpent, the other rich crimson depicting a roaring golden lion. Whoever would have guessed these two garments could have taken up residence in one trunk? But here they were, and standing between them looking very conflicted, was a twelve-year-old boy with white-blonde hair and gray eyes.

Scropius Malfoy bit his lip as he looked from one scarf to the next. His father would have a fit if he could see him now. _Be friends with whoever you must, but never let house loyalties fall be pushed aside._ But what about _friend _loyalties? Al and Rose would both be playing in this match for Gryffindor, and Scorpius had somehow enlarged his definition of friend wide enough to root for Al's brother and their cousins, who would all be playing today in scarlet.

If it were Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, there would be no question. He would don his red scarf, find a seat by Louis Weasley or Lucy and Roxy, and ignore the disgusted looks many of the other Slytherins shot him across the stands. He was friends with half the team, they couldn't honestly expect him to root _against _them.

But today it was different. As much as Scorpius often hated being stranded in Slythering when all of his friends were in Gryffindor, when so many of the students were related to either Death Eaters who considered his family traitors or rich, pureblood families who were ashamed and embarrassed by the Malfoys' fall from grace, he could not denounce his house completely. He had been raised in a house of green and silver. One of the few things his father was passionate about was their Slytherin lineage, being cunning and sly where it counted. A part of him _was _actually proud to be placed in that house, even if so many of its members considered him less than worthy of their attention or courtesy.

And Ian Nott, fifth year captain and Chaser, had really worked hard to put a good team together and keep them in line. He was one of the few people in his house that actually was friendly to Scorpius, and Scorpius thought he deserved at least a shot at the cup.

So he was torn. Who should he support? Who should he sit with? It crossed his mind to ask to borrow a Hufflepuff scarf and forgo this knotty decision all together. He smirked a bit at what his father would think of that. But then he refocused on the two pieces of material staring down at him, as though asking him to choose a side once and for all – green or red, family or friends – and his smirk turned into a scowl of frustration.

He glanced at the clock beside his bed. If he didn't pick soon, he would miss the match all together. That was an idea… but then he imagined Albus's disappointed voice and Rose's fiery expression and knew it wasn't an option. So Scorpius, moving with sudden certainty, as though he'd always known what he was going to do, tugged the emerald scarf down as he fished in the corner of his wardrobe for the red and gold hat Albus's mother had knitted for him and the rest of her children, nieces, and nephews that Christmas (a practice round, she called it), and threw them on as he sprinted out of his dormitory. He could be green and silver _and _red and gold.

…

Five minutes later, Scorpius sank into the seat beside Olivia Knott, Ian's little sister and the only Slytherin in his year that treated him like a decent person.

"Hey," she said, smiling in greeting, though looking surprised. "Nice accessories. I figured you'd be dressing neutral for this one, though."

Scorpius dropped his head into his hands with a groan. Why hadn't he thought of _that_?

**A/N: Oh Scorp :) Anyway, pretty please review? A huge, HUGE thank you to everyone who has! You guys make my day! I'm really dying for feedback on this story. I've got more favorites than reviews, so a few words would be spectacular! You don't have to write a novel or anything, I just really need to know if you like/don't like where I'm going with this or if you've got some people in mind you'd like to read about or whatever. It's real easy. Just click that little button down there. :)**


	12. February 6

_Filiopietistic:__ Pertaining to reverence of forebears or tradition, especially if carried to excess._

February 6, 1976

He examined the reflection with a cool concentration. Fine black robes hung off his slight frame, regal features smoothed into flawless mask, dark hair, gray eyes, pale skin. A green silk cape was fastened at his collar with a silver snake pin, emerald eyes glinting. He was the image of pureblood nobility. He looked the part of a proper wizard. So unlike the course, unrefined mass of the student body. The opposite of his loud, upstart, foolhardy brother who was a shame to the family name.

Sirius was blinded by the need for conflict. He always had been. When they were children, Regulus had watched him take up arguments with their parents, with Bella and Cissy, with Regulus himself, for no other reason than the need to argue. He was built to go against the grain. And he was foolish. He could not see that simply doing anything and everything to enrage their parents, to go against tradition, would lead him off a cliff in the end.

Tradition was there for a reason. Bellatrix married into pure blood. She was smart, always had been. She understood the dangers mixing with Mudbloods and blood traitors and other vermin presented. Andromeda married into blood so filthy she must have to wear a permanent bubble-head charm just to breathe, and look where that got her: cut out of the family. Regulus carried himself calmly, calculatingly, obeyed his parents and stayed in the rich social circles. They would look out for one another because they were all vested in the same interests.

But Sirius, he ran round the school like a maniac with that Potter and Lupin in tow and fat little Pettigrew sniveling after them. He made an idiot of himself every day, spent half his time in detentions. And for what end? To aggravate their parents? Surely his brother could not _like _those boys. Potter was a pureblood, it was true. He came from some money and if he stopped being such a ridiculously annoying git, shooting his mouth off about how werewolves weren't monsters and the likes, he might be decent. But how Sirius could stand Lupin, the pale, meek, brownnosing bookworm, or Pettigrew, that whiney half-wit, he could not fathom.

Surely he must realize that his 'friends' cared more for their causes and dying for those noble values than they did for his one life? Surely he knew that the moment he seemed to care more about his own survival than their causes they would throw him to the wolves?

Yes, that was why Mother made such an effort to ensure Regulus understand the importance of tradition. That he understand that he must fight for it.

**A/N: Now, Regulus is about fifteen in this. It's before he becomes disenchanted. I don't think he's like this at heart. My interpretation of his true nature can be found in my one-shot 'How They Came to Leave'. I think it's a bit fairer to both Black brothers. **

**Okay, thank you all so much for reviewing! I got the most reviews ever for the last chapter, a whole four! :) I really need the feedback! Any thoughts/ideas/comments, go ahead and share them! :)**


	13. February 7

_Crib:__ to pilfer or steal, especially, especially to plagiarize_

**February 7, 1990**

"Hey, give it back!" Harry cried indignantly as his maths homework flew out from under his nose.

"Keep your voice down in the house,"Aunt Petunia snapped from the stove, not even looking around to see what was going on.

Dudley pulled out his own crumpled homework assignment and laid it down beside his overflowing breakfast plate. "Just a minute," he grunted, shoving Harry into the wall as he made a grab for his paper.

Harry made one more swipe for the paper, but his cousin jabbed an elbow into his gut before he could get anywhere near it. Scowling, he dropped back into his seat. He'd spent most of last night and this morning figuring out all the answers while Dudley played his stupid computer games and now he'd have the answers in two minutes. And so would all of Dudley's gang, too, Harry was sure.

He glanced over at his aunt, wondering if it was worth trying to tell her. Probably not. She didn't believe a thing out of his mouth, especially if it was something bad about her son. And their teacher wouldn't, either. Dudley always said they'd worked together on it. No, if Harry didn't want Dudley copying his work, he'd have to stop it himself….

XxX

Just before the final bell rang that afternoon, the teacher called everyone up to the front of the room to collect their graded quizzes from that morning. When she handed Harry's back, it was with a frown.

"Not your best work, Mr. Potter," she said disapprovingly.

But when Harry saw the large red zero scrawled in the upper corner, an inexplicable grin spread across his face. He smirked as Dudley passed him, flashing the grade at his cousin. Dudley's mouth fell open. Behind him, Piers smacked Gordon in the arm.

"I told you he was up to something," he hissed furiously, looking at his own zero with a sullen expression.

And the best part? Harry couldn't get into trouble because Dudley couldn't admit he'd been cheating. And it wasn't as if his aunt and uncle cared about his grades at all.

It was only a small victory, but for now, Harry lived from one small victory to the next and just tried to get by the rest of the time.

**A/N: Read and review? Pretty please? :) **


	14. February 8

_Piacular:__ expiatory; atoning; reparatory_

**February 8, 1999**

They walked side-by-side along the winding lane. Orange dawn crept over the snow-covered fields. A lonely tree stood here or there, snow dripping in glittering drops from its bare branches under the glow of coming day. Little farm houses burnt red and brown and orange in the dawn light stood still nestled and sleeping against the colored sky. Patches of mud where the snow was already receding speckled the sides of the road and a small winter bird hopped here and there, looking for their breakfast. Above their heads, a handful of shimmery morning stars still twinkled red and blue and gold, like a handful of glitter had been tossed into the heavens.

At first they didn't touch, slipping out of the house one after the other, the boy shuffling along with his hands thrust in his pockets and dark head bent, the girl stepping lightly along the frosty, rutted road, long hair glowing coppery in the orange light. There was a careful distance, small, but still present, between them as they breathed in the sweet, cold, morning air and listened to the hushed calm of the country in winter.

Then, as they rounded a curve and the road started to run along the flooding river, one of them would reach out into the cold and slip a hand into the other's. Their breaths rose in foggy swirls, but they did not break the peaceful silence. And by the time they returned to the crooked old farmhouse with its red roof and its pile of old wellington boots, and its chickens pecking in the yard, their arms were around each other, helping to drive out the cold.

Every day since Christmas morning they partook of this quiet ritual. Nothing needed to be said, for a solemn apology was understood between them. He for his leaving, and she for her withdrawing. The rest of the day they would laugh and smile and sneak brushes of the lips, but first they must walk to the river and back again.

And each day as the snow melted, receded just a little bit more, so too would the equally terrible and separate memories they both carried inside of them. Each morning they faced the new dawn together.

**A/N: Every story of Harry and Ginny is a little different. I don't imagine them getting together again right away after the war. There's too much… there, I think. But by Christmas I think they've started to sort it out. Maybe I'll find a snapshot for the first Christmas Eve after the war…. It's all in my head, it just needs to be written. **

**Anyway, thank you so much to those who review! Especially the anonymous ones who I can't respond to directly. Your words are wonderful! :)**


	15. February 9

_Screed:__ A long discourse or essay, especially a diatribe_

**February 9, 1985**

A candle burned upon a rickety table, guttering in a chilly draft as it slowly sank into the pool of hot wax that had already collected at its base. A small window rattled, the patched curtains that covered it fluttering in the late-winter storm that howled on the other side of the glass. The room was dim with just that one guttering candle and a small lamp across the room. A few pieces of worn furniture surrounded by a neat clutter of books and papers, a tea kettle, a stack of clean dishes, and a few other nick-knacks filled the small space.

And in the corner, beside the candle, a young man was bent over a scroll of parchment, scribbling away furiously with a rather ragged-looking quill. Ink splattered his parchment, his fingers, even his nose, as his hand sped across the yellow parchment. His handwriting spilled in remarkably straight lines, neat and looping and steady at first, but growing increasingly hurried and sharp. Already the top edge of the roll was dangling off the table and still the man wrote.

His light-brown hair and slightly stretched-looking frame indicated youth, but his face looked older, his eyes sadder. His anger, though, seemed young in its vigor.

At last he seemed to have run out of things to write. He finished the last line with a final, sharp flourish and scrawled his name underneath it: Remus J. Lupin.

Then he stood and stretched and pulled back the curtain enough to peak at the raging storm outside. He had barely noticed it. How many evenings had he spent bent over that table, scribbling away? Too many, probably. But what else was he to fill his evenings with these days?

He must walk around in the world day-in and day-out calmly, offering pleasant smiles to strangers, helpfully lending directions to the lost and offering his seat on the bus to little old ladies with their shopping. He was too mature to be consumed by bitterness, and too determined to prove to them that he was a good person, an asset to society.

But this rage, this frustration, this bitter injustice that swirled in him would not go away, and he had nobody to release it on, no way to get it out of him except by writing it down. To keep his own sanity, he put every ounce of the anger tightening his chest and threatening to burst out of him into the ink.

He wrote to the Ministry about their corrupted system, about the laws meant to keep him barely scraping by due to bigotry and inflated fear. To Black for all the damages and destruction he left, for his deceit, for leaving Remus here alone. To Dumbledore for sending Lily and James's son away, making him into just another thing to be used when the fighting broke out again as he seemed to think it would. Sometimes to James for trusting without reserve. Sometimes to Peter for abandoning him for some idiotic show of nobility. Sometimes to himself for letting down his guard, believing he had found friends who would never leave him.

He picked up tonight's letter and rolled it into a tight scroll, like he did with every other. He sealed it with wax from his dripping candle, then carefully lowered an end into the hungry flame and watched as the fire ate away his fury.

**A/N: I didn't realize this challenge would require me to flit to so many different characters. I'm generally attracted to Potters, but I've spent comparatively little time on Harry so far, haven't I? Anyway, thank you so much for those who review! Please let me hear your thoughts! It helps to keep me going, really it does! :)**


	16. February 10

_Depone:__ to testify under oath; depose_

**February 10, 1999**

Out in the corridor, Harry fiddled with his tie, tugging it loose and pulling it tight again with nervous fingers. This was ridiculous. After last year, how could this fill him with so much apprehension? He leaned against the cold stone wall and tried not to remember the other times he'd been here, outside the courtrooms on level nine.

He sucked in a deep breath and buried his face in his hands. Was he doing the right thing? He'd spent the last few weeks combing over painful memories, second-guessing himself. Maybe he should just stay out of it. Maybe he couldn't pass valid judgment. Kingsley would be fair, Harry was sure of that…. But without his testimony, the just punishment would likely be life sentences in Azkaban.

Maybe they deserved it. Merlin knew what they had escaped punishment for last time. But this time…. _Argh, how did this decision land with me?_ he thought, kneading his forehead.

A door opened.

"Harry?"

He looked up at Hermione's soft voice. She and Ron were in the doorway to the court room.

"They want to start soon. Are you ready?"

Harry slid down the wall, worrying his lip between his teeth. His friends came down the corridor to join him. Hermione rested the palm of her hand on the top of his head.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ron asked abruptly, rocking on his heels. "I mean… I know you think you owe them some kind of debt or something, but think what they did…."

Harry sighed. "But how much choice did they have?" He asked quietly.

"You always have a choice," Ron answered, perhaps with more heat than he meant to.

Harry knew Ron disagreed with what he was going to do. But he'd come for moral support anyway. And Harry appreciated it more than he could explain. If he wasn't sure he could do this now, he was positive he wouldn't have been able to get himself up there on his own.

Above his head, Hermione frowned at Ron. "We have to at least tell them our story. They should have _all _the evidence."

"We've already told Kingsley," Ron said, a dark look passing over his face at the memory. The last few days had been almost as taxing as those right after the battle, forced to relive several of their nightmarish memories again and again, analyze them for the sake of weeding out guilty from less guilty.

A warning bell sounded from within the room. At the end of the corridor the lift doors rattled and footsteps echoed down towards them from the unseen passage. Harry hauled himself to his feet, feeling slightly sick. But he knew what he had to do. In his gut, he knew what was fair, even if the evidence and public opinion was against him.

He led Ron and Hermione back into the courtroom to testify on behalf of the Malfoys.

**A/N: Not sure if this came out how I wanted it to, but please review anyway and let me know! **


	17. February 11

_Burled:__ having small knots that produce a distorted grain in wood_

**February 11, 1970**

"My, Rella, it's… it's lovely," Molly said falteringly, gazing at the housewarming gift her mother-in-law had just brought over and set up in the middle of her kitchen. "How very generous for you and Septimus to give this to us."

Cedrella Weasley stood back to admire the full effect of the kitchen now that her gift sat squarely in the middle of it. Or rather, _roundly _in the middle of it. And not perfectly roundly either. Arthur's mother had brought them their very first piece of furniture for the new house: a rather roughly hewn wooden table, mostly round, but somewhat lop-sided and covered with burn marks, gashes, a paint stain or two, and small, bumpy knots that made it look, in Molly's opinion, as though the table had a bad case of acne. And what was more, it was the very table that had sat in Arthur's parents' kitchen for as long as he could remember.

Cedrella nodded approvingly. "It fits nice in here. I knew it would. Now you can stop eating your dinner off the floor, finally. Won't it be nice to sit around a table again?"

Molly nodded, forcing a smile as she looked at the ancient, scarred thing looking about ready to collapse in the kitchen of her new home, the first home that was _hers_ to keep.

"Of course you'll have to get a new one eventually," Cedrella went on, fondly running a hand along the uneven surface, and Molly almost sighed with relief. This was only temporary, of course. Rella only wanted to get them off the floor. She wouldn't expect Molly to keep this eyesore in her house longer than it took to find a good replacement. "But I imagine you'll be able to get another good decade out of it at least."

"Oh – are you sure?" Molly said, heart sinking. "It's just that…well…"

"It looks old, doesn't it?" Cedrella nodded knowingly. "But I promise it's tougher than it looks."

Molly wasn't sure if that was possible. If tables could be indimidated, she was sure the coffee table in the sitting room was shaking like a leaf.

Cedrella's fingers stopped at one of the gouges in the surface, and she smiled nostalgically. "Bilius made that when he was nine," she said. "Helping me with dinner. I'd only given him a spoon to stir the soup with. Merlin knows how he did it, but I could never fix it. Septimus made this out of a rowan tree, you know. Very magically strong wood – that's why it's hasted as long as it has. But you can't alter it magically."

"Septimus _made _this?" Molly asked, caught by surprise.

Arthur's mother nodded. "Oh, yes. Insisted on it. He said 'the kitchen table is like the heart of a house'. And he wasn't having someone else make our heart." She shook her head, laughing to herself.

"I must have tried to get this burn out for six hours before he told me magic wouldn't work," she said, her hand leaping to a large white mark in the middle of the table. "We'd only had this a few weeks and I'd already marked it up. It was Rupert's birthday cake. The boys got me distracted – climbing the apple tree we used to have in the back garden before that storm blew it over. Nearly gave me heart failure swinging around in those branches. Anyway, the first cake burned while I was yelling at them to get down before they broke their necks. And the second one was barely done on time. I took it right out of the oven and set it on the table and the mark's been there ever since."

Molly took a few steps closer, examining the scarred surface of the table with a new curiosity.

"That's Arthur's," Cedrella said fondly, pointing to a bright blue paint stain. "He used to fiddle with those Muggle model kits, painting arrow-planes and contraptions like that. Spilled a whole pot of his paint one afternoon… oh, I was furious. We were having company that afternoon and he nearly ruined my good table cloth. But did that stop him messing about with paint on my table?"

She pointed to several other, considerably smaller smears of colored paint dotting the tabletop, shaking her head in exasperation.

"It's certainly seen a lot," Molly murmured, tracing over the marks with her fingertips and wondering about the stories behind them.

"That it has," Cedrella agreed. "It doesn't look perfect by any means, but then again if it did, I'd be embarrassed to show it to you. My sister's table is probably smooth and shiny as ever, but her house is awfully quiet and lonely, and she's much too uptight to let her son so much as do his homework on her good furniture. A perfect table is one of the worst things I could think of having…."

xXx

It took a bit of getting used to, but once her house started filling up with boys, once Bill's raspberry hand print marked the table leg, Charlie's spilled candle streaked across the grain, the twins' little teeth marks dug into the softened wood from when they started teething, Molly understood what her mother-in-law meant.

Eventually their family outgrew the little table, and it was moved into Arthur's shed in the garden, where he added to his collection of model paint stains. But even though the new, scrubbed wooden table that replaced it could be mended by magic, Molly left the burn marks from Bill and Charlie's record-setting exploding snap game, the dent from Ron accidentally running his wagon into the table leg, the initials Ginny carved into the underside of the table.

In fact, when she discovered the small GMW years later, Molly added her own MPW. Eventually the underside of the table would be covered with clusters of rough letters: VGW, TRL, DGW, FOW, JSP, RMW, ASP, LRW, PIW, LLP, CRW, GFW… any grandchild (or child at heart) who wanted to add their legacy to the unintended recorder of memories, the heart of the house.

**A/N: Wow… this one got long. Way longer than I mean it to. Perhaps I didn't need so many initials, but I got rather carried away deciding who would end up under the table to find the letters and who would want to add to it and in what order… over analyzing a simple story. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it! Please let me know what you think? Pretty please with Honeydukes chocolate on top?**


	18. February 12

_Auscultation:__ the act of listening to sounds within the body as a method of diagnosis_

**February 12, 1996**

Percy Weasley pushed his glasses up his nose importantly as he stepped out of the lift. He couldn't keep the smugness out of his expression as he carried the stack of files – straight from the _Minister's _office – down to his old department. Truth be told, he had never hit it off with anyone from the Department for International Magical Cooperation. They seemed to think he was a suck-up. For those few weeks after the whole – er – _affair _as he thought of it, before he'd gotten his promotion, he had hardly been able to face coming into the office. This place had made him burn with shame and humiliation.

But now here he was, working in the office of the Minister of Magic himself, bringing important paperwork down that _had _to be signed today. And fully intending to let them know of the Minister's impatience. He couldn't deny that he was rather pleased to be sent down here again, to show them all where he'd ended up. He hadn't been a screw up after all.

Percy marched through the maze of desks, nodding stiffly at his former colleagues when they glanced up. He made sure to knock smartly on the door to the new Head's office, putting as much formal importance into the sound as he could. Nothing happened. Percy waited, tapping his foot impatiently, nose in the air. After two minutes, he was beginning to feel a bit foolish. He thought he could hear some snickers behind him. He knocked again.

"Urgent business from the Minister's personal office!' he announced. "Please open up. Minister Fudge is on a tight timeline!"

At last the office door clicked open and Crouch's successor (he often thought of it as _his _successor as he had been essentially doing all the tasks of running the office for several months, but no one remembered how well he'd managed that in their inquiries) appeared. Percy knew her vaguely. Audrey something-or-other. She'd been in Charlie's year at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw he thought. Mostly he remembered that he'd expected her to be smarter than the rest of these buffoons and support him while he was trying to keep things running in Mr. Crouch's absence, but she'd disappointed him.

She surveyed him now from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles without the faintest hint of apology for keeping him waiting.

"Well?" he said impatiently. "May I come in?"

She stood aside and he brushed past her. "Mr. Fudge needs these back by three o'clock this afternoon," he informed her, dropping the heavy stack of folders on her desk with a satisfying thud. She was probably regretting her delay now.

Audrey something-or-other went around her desk and pulled the first folder towards her, taking out a quill. Percy turned to leave, straightening his Personal Office of the Minister tag, which gave him official clearance. Mostly just to the memo room, but Percy usually just said that gave him official clearance.

"You were always very smart," Audrey said as he reached the door, making him wheel around.

"What was that?"

"You were always very smart," she repeated thoughtfully, surveying him over the top of his quill. "I remember Charlie's little brother was always in the library. We used to tease him he'd be going to you for tutoring. So it just surprises me that you don't see it, is all."

"Don't see what?" he snapped, nonplused. His impressive moment was being ruined.

"That _something _is going on out there with Dumbledore and You-Know-Who," she said earnestly.

Percy's temper flared. This was too close to home for his liking. "Don't tell me you're part of that lunacy as well. If there was any possibility of danger, the Ministry would be doing its utmost to put a stop to it."

"But sometimes your most reliable tools fail," Audrey went on calmly, unfazed. "Listen to the people, Weasley. What do you hear? Disappearances, mysterious deaths, mass break-outs. People are afraid. Usually that's the surest sign that something is wrong."

"Preposterous," Percy spluttered. "Dumbledore is spreading rumors, that's all there is to it. That's why people are afraid."

Audrey merely studied him. "As I say, the best way to assess a situation is to go outside your honed tools and actually listen to what is happening."

Percy turned on his heal and marched from her office, all smugness replaced by outrage. He didn't have to listen to this nonsense any more….

The wanted posters that had been plastered all over the ministry a month ago caught his eye. His eyes found the picture of Antonin Dolohov automatically, the man responsible for his uncles' deaths all those years ago. What sort of mess-up could let a man like that free…?

He shook himself and kept storming down the hall. It was all nonsense. The Ministry would find him again and clear up this whole mess soon.

**A/N: I'm really not very good at this 'short' thing, am I? Well, I hope you liked reading about Percy. **I don't know why, but I've found I rather like writing him. I've got a soft spot for the guy, even when he's being a total prat… especially when he's being a total prat. It's just so much fun to get into his personality. But anyway…

Thank you SO much to everybody who reviews! Especially to Snatching at Dreams and Alohamora080 who I hear from pretty faithfully each chapter and whose feedback always makes my day! You guys have no idea how encouraging it is to hear your thoughts on each chapter, even if it's just a few words. I love to know how I'm doing, what you like/want to see more of/anticipate or whatever you want to tell me! Thanks so much! :)


	19. February 13

_Exoteric:__ suitable for or communicated to the general public_

**February 13, 1999**

"What do you think?" Harry asked the minute he, Ron, and Hermione were once again shut up in Ron's attic bedroom.

They exchanged a look, then shifted their gaze back to him at the same time.

"Well," Ron said slowly. "We kind of figured it was your call. It's your story."

"It's your families," Harry countered. "And it's not really my story. You two were there the whole time, too."

"Not the whole time," Hermione said quietly.

There was a moment of heavy silence in which the dark shadows of the forest seemed to loom up around them, and Ron absentmindedly drew the deluminator from his pocket.

"Well, you know the whole story, anyway," Harry hurried on quickly. "It's as much to do with you as me. They'd want to hear your sides of it, too."

Ron flopped backward onto his bed with a groan of bed springs. "Would we have to tell them the whole thing?" he asked.

Hermione sat down beside him, rubbing his knee comfortingly, but her expression was pensive.

They had known the people they'd left behind with no explanation for nearly nine months would eventually come after that explanation. At first, no one had bothered or dared to ask what they'd been doing. Not even Kingsley. There was too much morning, they were barely holding it together. And then they were all trying to figure out how to move forward, busy with the future to dwell on the past. Then it was the Holidays, then the whole fiasco back in January.

But now the curiosity – the need to know – that they had watched growing in everyone else's eyes for ages now had finally caught up to them. Kingsley had asked formally for an explanation at dinner that evening. It was less an inquiry and more a request from the Ministry, but still, it was a question. And they could answer no. But the rest of Ron's family did not seem to want to take no as an answer as readily as Kingsley might.

"Dumbledore didn't want _anybody _else to know," Harry murmured, dropping down onto his own bed. "Not about the Horcruxes. And how can we tell them anything if we don't tell them about that?"

"But that was so _he _wouldn't figure out what we were up to and change the board around," said Ron. "He's gone. They both are. It doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"

"Maybe…." Harry said slowly. "But I don't much like the idea of giving away Voldemort's secret to immortality to the world. Dumbledore removed those books from the restricted section for a reason. He didn't want people getting ideas, and I think he was right."

"But shouldn't the Ministry at least know in case it happens again?" Hermione said, biting her lip.

"And whatever you tell Kingsley, Mum and Dad and Bill and George and the rest will all want to know," Ron pointed out.

"So it comes down to how much we want the world to know," Harry sighed.

They looked at each other. How many secrets had the three of them guarded over the years? It was surely not a new practice for them. But in a way, it alienated them from the rest. Was that something they wanted to take to their graves?

Harry drew his knees up to his chin, his eyes drifting far away. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances now and then, holding an entire conversation.

"It's not a story for the world to know," Harry decided at last. "Your parents don't need to have nightmares of you destroying Voldemort's soul. People… look at you different when they know you've done things like that. It's like they don't think they know you anymore.

"We should tell Kingsley about the Horcruxes, but just enough that he gets the idea. I'm not letting those things back into common knowledge or the history books. That's one secret I'll keep to the grave. Do you agree?"

He looked at them, and they nodded. They had known what he would say before he'd even opened his mouth.

"It's better that way,' Hermione agreed. "They don't need any extra nightmares in their heads."

A part of her wanted to break down and spill the whole thing out. She had spent so long keeping things from her parents for their peace of mind that the little girl inside of her just wanted to lay all her demons out on someone else, let them figure out how to chase them away, not feel like a wall separated her from the people she loved. A part of Ron wanted to tell, too. A part of him wanted to see his brothers' faces when they heard the whole story, wanted to be little Ronnie, the last to know everything again instead of the one holding all the secrets.

But Harry was right. No one needed Voldemort's secrets spread to the world. So they'd keep this one, most important mystery to themselves, carry it together to the grave, where it belonged.

**A/N: It always struck me as out-of-character for Harry to go blabbing about Horcruxes after the battle, even to the rest of the Weasleys. I just don't think he would want people to know those things. Maybe he told Ginny eventually. It just always drives me nuts when, like, George brings it up in casual conversation or something, or when all the next gen kids seem to know all about it. They just don't need to know. **

**Anyway, please review! It's much appreciated! :)**


	20. February 14

_Cordate:__ heart-shaped_

**February 14, 2000**

As daylight came blazing over the windowsills, flooding the house with warmth and light again, Mrs. Weasley found a single red rose lying across the table. She took it gently in her fingers and delicately touched the crimson petals charmed into the shape of hearts. After thirty years, a simple reminder of the beauty of life said volumes more than any extravagant gesture ever could. A rose to remind her of all the hearts she held dear, the lives they had brought forth together.

XxX

At noon, Hermione came back into her office to find a card sitting in the middle of her desk. Simple, thick white paper, a purple heart bearing the message _my love always_. It is more than enough of a gift.

XxX

In the stretching hours of the afternoon, as her grandson slept peacefully in the adjacent room, Andromeda pulled a small chest from beneath her bed and carefully fanned the contents out on the quilt. Three decades of elegant, lacy cards signed with that familiar, flourishing T, of loud, colorful gifts marked with "Love you to the moon and back – Dora". A tear or two slipped down her cheeks as she traced the silver hearts, her daughter's wavering, six-year-old signature.

Then she drew out the new card from her pocket and unfolded it, looked at the bright pink handprints all over the shimmery paper cut like a heart that her grandson had proudly shoved into her hands when Ginny had brought him home earlier. She placed it among the accumulation of valentines and smiled even as her heart broke.

XxX

As the sun set, a gold chain came down in front of Ginny's eyes, a small, ruby heart glittering there. She set down the tub of frosting she'd been spreading over cookies and turned around, face-to-face with her fiancé.

"Figured it was about time I gave you this," he said, that crooked smile crossing his face.

"It's perfect," she said, leaning up to seal their promised future with a kiss.

XxX

Dusk light filled the sitting room and Bill lit candles. They didn't have champagne this year. They didn't dance to romantic music. They sat before the fire drinking apple juice instead and tracing hearts over Fleur's bulging belly. This year they had a new sweetheart to celebrate.

XxX

Moonlight glinted off the snow outside the window, off their wine glasses, off the silvery ring he was holding up to her, knelt down on one knee.

"It's not a diamond," Percy said apologetically. "I couldn't afford one worth buying. But maybe someday I can fill it in…."

But Audrey thought that the swirling silver heart was far better than any rock he could have given her.

XxX

All the many ways they gave each other their hearts…

**A/N: Ah, the many romances of the Weasley world. :) Hope you liked it, Happy Valentine's Day! Please share the love and review! ;) **


	21. February 15

_Vilipend:__ to regard or treat as of little value or account_

**February 15, 1971 **

The houses fell together like maze walls, ordinary paved streets running into ordinary paved streets. Gray clouds swirled overhead, dropping sleety flakes now and then onto the muddy lawns. In front of one brown house, only standing out from the rest by the red pansies blossoming in the window boxes (the focus of the neighbors' suspicious whispers, 'how could anybody get flowers to grow this early in the year?'), a boy milled around the garden. He was wrapped in a puffy orange coat which stood out painfully brightly in the dull landscape and made him look even pudgier than he was.

The wind swept his thin blond hair into wispy swirls and his watery blue eyes roamed vacantly over the streets. He shuffled from one end of the muddy yard to the other, kicking occasionally at a sagging soccer ball without much enthusiasm. But his eyes kept returning to the road as if he were waiting for something. Now and again, he'd slip his fingers into his coat pocket, and a fleeting grin would cross his face.

After what seemed to the boy like ages, a sleek red car sailed smoothly around the corner and into the drive. The boy's face lit up, and he ran towards it as the doors swung open.

"Dad, Paul, I've got something to show you!" he called, scrambling over the low stone wall and stumbling a little on landing.

A boy several years older than the one in the orange coat glanced over, his own blond hair combed smoothly back, making him look athletic and dashing with his tennis racket over his shoulder.

"Hey, Petey," he said distractedly, nodding at his father, who was continuing their conversation as if he hadn't heard the little boy's calls.

Undeterred, Petey dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a green ribbon, flourishing it proudly under the older boy's nose.

"I placed in the spelling bee! Just like Paul did when _he _was in my year!"

"Good job, Pete," the older boy muttered, ruffling his hair absently as he brushed past, jogging up the front walk with athletic grace Petey could only envy and disappearing into the house.

Petey looked a little disappointed, but he turned to his father, grin returning as he offered the ribbon. "Look Dad, just like Paul."

The man, who looked very much like the older boy and not quite so much like Petey, took the ribbon and examined it as though he weren't really interested and merely humoring the boy.

"I think Paul's is blue, Pete," he said, returning the ribbon and following his elder son up the front walk.

Petey bobbed along at his heels like a pudgy little puppy stumbling over his own feet.

"But I placed! There were _hundreds _of kids and I beat most of them! I even knew 'suspiciously' s-u-s-p –"

"Mm-hm, I'm sure next time you'll win. Pettigrews are good with numbers, that's why we're bankers."

"But I'm talking about spelling," Petey told him, furrowing his brow as they reached the door.

But his father was already striding across the hall, calling for his mother, and Petey was left alone, holding his green ribbon and suddenly wishing he could fling it into the river.

**A/N: Hey! Okay, so if you didn't catch my brief A/N chapter earlier, I'm heading off to Florida tomorrow morning and so my internet and schedule is a bit iffy. I'm hoping to keep up with this while I'm on vacation, but I don't know if I'll be able to. I'll be back on Tuesday and back to regular updates, but I might have to catch up on this patch of February as I go. **

**Alright, well I love hearing your feedback. I rather liked writing this chapter, even though it was maybe not the most interesting. I hope you still enjoyed reading it! :) **


	22. February 16

_Mammonism:__ the greedy pursuit of riches_

**February 16, 1997**

An oily-haired man sat hunched over a cluttered table in a dim back room. Artifacts, all of a grim sort of nature, were piled along the somewhat grimy walls. Lamps hung from rusted chains around the room, but their light did little for the gloom. Silver and gold and other treasures glinted on shelves and in glass cases, but there was a sinister air about them.

On the table before the man, several strange-looking tools lay discarded. He ran his long, bony fingers along a polished piece of dark wood, murmuring to himself, now and again stopping to jot something on an ink-splattered scrap of parchment. The more he wrote, the grimmer his expression became.

At last he flung down the quill and the wood and exclaimed aloud to the empty room, "It can't be done!" He got laboriously to his feet, leaning heavily on the table to support his withered, stooping frame. "Not by a child at any rate. Not so quickly. Too many intertwining enchantments, too much complexity… he's wasting his time…."

He trailed off, swallowing hard. What was he doing? Breathing hard, the oily man moved across his cluttered work room to a sallow painting on the opposite wall. The man had famous at some time or another, the painting worth something. But that value had long-since faded. He pried the frame away from the wall and the portrait swung forward to reveal an alcove and the small pile of gold and silver coins it held.

The man reached in, running his fingers along the cool, smooth metal. He closed his eyes. When this wretched task was over, he would have more than this small piece of pocket change. He'd go south, get out of this blasted place where demons and beasts were sent to stalk him by a mere child. That was why he kept trying.

For a moment, the man thought of what would happen should the boy be successful. He would be releasing his worst nightmares into that castle with all those children… what carnage might they leave there? He turned to sweep his eyes over the room crammed with precious artifacts and for just a moment saw the blood that filled their pasts, that would fill their futures – all for the gold to fill this alcove. And for the first time he wondered if it was worth it.

The bell tinkled above the door to the shop. Mr. Borgin jumped and scurried out of his back store room, thoughts already back to his own life and fortune. If he ended up alive and rich on top of that, how could it not be worth it?

**A/N: All rewritten for you! I think this second draft turned out better than the first, to be honest. Please review! :)**


	23. February 17

_Tramontane:__ Being or situated beyond the mountains_

**February 17, 1978**

"What are we _doing _here, again?" Sirius groaned, dragging himself over the crest of a heap of rocks.

Remus slid down beside him with a grinding of gravel.

"Because James wanted us to come," he muttered, elbowing his friend in the ribs.

"Ow, Moony," Sirius complained, elbowing Remus back. "I'm sore enough from this bloody –"

"We're climbing mountains," James called over his shoulder, several yards ahead of them on the path. He leapt lightly down from the lip of a ledge and Sirius muttered, "Show off."

"But what's the _point_?" Peter whined, struggling to mount the obstruction Sirius and Remus had just cleared. He was sweaty and red, and his robes were torn already.

"We've been running about the grounds for nearly seven years. Don't you think it's funny we've never thought to see what was on the other side?"

"But we can _apparate. _Why _climb_ the mountains?"

"Because they're there," Lily supplied, taking pity on Peter and levitating him a few feet up the rocky slope.

"Come on, Lily, you know the rules!" James called from his perch down the path, waiting for the rest to catch up to him. "No cheating!"

"Sorry!" she called back, flashing him a sheepish smile as she stowed her wand back in her pocket.

"Well I think he's finally cracked," Sirius muttered as Peter heaved himself, panting, to the top of the rock pile and began to half-slide-mostly-roll down the other side. "Wormy's gonna have a heart attack before we make it halfway."

Lily smacked the back of his head as she scrambled past, overtaking him and Remus as they clumsily navigated the ledge. "Humor him," she hissed. "It's the seventeenth."

Sirius scowled, but he renewed his efforts to catch up with James.

James leapt at the mountain as though he were trying to conquer it, as though his life depended on winning this fight.

"Not everything's as easy as spinning around and popping up somewhere else," he grunted, skittering down another steep slope and landing on all fours at the bottom, looking up at the imperious peak of the real mountain looming over them. He sprang up and took a running start for the incline. "If we can't climb a mountain, why should we even bother trying to stop a war?"

Lily, Sirius, Remus, and Peter paused to look at each other. James pulled himself up onto the first crest of the mountain. He bent down and pulled Lily up beside him, wrapping his arms around her waist, and the pair of them stood silhouetted against the bright winter sky, standing in the shadow of that great, looming mass. There was a hard look on James's face that his friends had only seen once; nine months ago the night his father had died.

After that, none of the rest raised objections. They fought the rock and earth alongside James, if only to prove that they could see what lay on the other side. If only to prove that nothing could stop them form fighting, not even something as immovable as mountains.

**A/N: Okay, I had the chapter for the sixteenth all written up and saved. Wrote it on the plane and was so proud of myself because it was super early in the morning and I was staying on top of things. But then I accidentally deleted it. So now I have to write it over again. But I figured I'd post this one now because it's done and this is the first chance I've gotten to upload anything. We've been going nonstop down here in Florida and now my homework is piling up, so we'll see if I can catch up quickly, but I'll give it my best! I've at least got ideas for the four chapters I've got to write tomorrow! **

**Oh yeah, and There's a bit of Marauders' backstory revealed both in this chapter and the one from the fifteenth. If ever I write my story exclusively about them, it shall all be explained in detail. But the seventeenth is the nine month anniversary of James's father's death.**

**Thanks so much for reviewing! You guys make my whole day with your words! :D**


	24. February 18

_Pachyderm:__ a person who is not sensitive to criticism, ridicule, etc._

**February 18, 2020**

"You are a vile toad!"

"Why thank you, Bennit, you're rather warty yourself."

"I can't believe I'm stuck working with the biggest imbecile in the year."

"Wait, your boyfriend's working with us, too? Just give him something shiny. That ought to keep him distracted for the class – but make sure you don't look into it. You might turn to stone if you catch sight of your reflection."

Madeline Bennit slammed her bag down on the potions desk and glowered at the boy opposite her. He smirked, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

"I hope you know how much I detest you, Potter," she said in a deceivingly calm voice, tossing her fiery red braid over her shoulder.

"Oh, likewise, Bennit, likewise I'm sure." James nodded, flashing her a winning smile. "Shall we get this done, then? Only it would make it easier if we finished _before_ your snake – er, I mean your hair woke up."

Across the dungeon, Fred Weasley dropped his head into his hands. He wondered if Professor Mervine was _hoping _for his class to go up in flames. Maybe he and James shouldn't have left that dung bomb in his cauldron….

**A/N: this one's on the short side, sorry about that. But I rather liked it short like this. Hopefully I'll be adding another chapter today to make up for it and to catch up. Please review! Thank you SO much to everyone who does! Really. Even if I don't get around to PMing you, I do read and appreciate all the feedback I get. :D**


	25. February 19

_Spruce__: to make neat or dapper_

**February 19, 2000**

"Hi."

Funny how that one little word could stop him in his tracks. Surly less nerve-racking things than a pretty girl sipping tea in his grandmother's kitchen had left Neville Longbottom tongue-tied, but that had been _before _he'd headed an army in battle. He'd rather hoped he'd moved past that stuttering, awkward stage. Then again, who would ever have expected to find a sweet, pretty girl anywhere near his somewhat severe grandmother?

"Hannah," he managed, feeling his face redden as he stopped in the doorway.

He must look dashing, he thought, with dirt spattering his baggy, green work robes and rubbery smock, purple sap smudging his cheek, and his hair sticking up from all the times the venomous tentaculus had made a grab for his goggles. And he was pretty sure he smelled like dragon manure on top of all that. But instead of wrinkling her nose and muttering some lame excuse about a forgotten appointment to get as far away from him as possible, Hannah Abbott did something completely amazing: she smiled.

"I've got the night off," she told him, carefully setting down the steaming mug of bitterroot tea she'd probably been too polite to refuse. "I thought I'd see if you wanted to do anything."

"Uh, yeah, s-sure," Neville said dumbly, bobbing his head. "Just… let me…."

He moved towards the stairs as quickly as he could, hoping the manure stench wouldn't reach Hannah. As he took the steps two at a time, he heard his grandmother continue a conversation that had to do with Neville's childhood fear of garden gnomes. He closed his eyes briefly. If she'd come just _one hour _later….

Upstairs, Neville raced through a shower, hoping he managed to get all the dried mud out of his hair. He didn't even feel the temperature of the water, he was going so fast. He scrubbed the dirt from under his fingernails, shaved the stubble on his chin (and accidentally his left eyebrow before he managed to pin down the blasted magical razor he'd gotten from his great Uncle Algea, but luckily he figured out how to grow it back), and attempted to comb his hair.

He was jittering so much, he could barely do up a clean set of robes. And of course the only clean ones he could find were an old set of his school robes which were just a little too short. Sighing in exasperation, Neville flopped down on his bed.

He was being stupid. It wasn't like Hannah was here for a date, was it? Why was he trying to dress up, anyway? She'd probably think he was a complete idiot, jumping to conclusions or trying to make a move on her (like he had any moves). She'd probably invited Ernie and Justin and the rest, too, and he'd look totally ridiculous as usual.

There was a hesitant knock on his bedroom door. "Neville?"

Grimacing at his reflection, Neville got up and opened the door.

"Ready to go?" Hannah asked, for some reason sounding slightly breathless.

For the first time, he noticed the jeweled butterfly clip glittering in her hair, the freshly-pressed look of her purple robes, the – was that perfume?

He swallowed.

"Um… yeah. Let's go. Are we meeting anyone?" he added as he closed his bedroom door.

Hannah turned a little pink. "No. It's just us."

He suppressed a sigh of relief. "Great."

They started down the stairs, which were so narrow, their shoulders kept brushing.

"You, er, look nice," he offered, glancing shyly at her.

"You clean up pretty good yourself," she smiled, reaching up to smooth his hair down.

**A/N: Aw. Neville and Hannah. Gotta love 'em. Anyway, review, yes?**


	26. February 21

_Bespeak__: to show; indicate_

**February 21, 1017**

She did not want to be here. However much she screamed into the wind, however long she drifted through the endless, dark forest, however much she begged to be gone from this place, to simply disappear, she remained.

She did not know why. Helga said, with such a tragic look on her face it nearly shook her from her self-pity, that it was because of the manner of her death. She was so young, so filled with things left unsaid, undone, so many emotions filling the bloodstain hidden by her cape that life could not let her go.

It wasn't fair. Life had never been fair to her. She could have been great. She _should _have been great. But he had ruined all that. And now she was stuck here, in this castle which she had tried only to leave behind in her childhood. Her mother was dead. Dead before she even could hear of her daughter's fate. Godric was dead, too, from several years before. And Salazar… who knew what had become of him. Helga was the only one left, and soon she would be gone just the same.

Helena was destined to drift through these halls for all of time, alone, and watch the world she had had no chance to impact. She was the first bloody memory trapped here. All because of him. And where was _he _in all of this? She had seen his body, his sacrifice. But what sacrifice was that? He was gone now, too. Free. Like she could never be.

She hovered in her tower – the tower that had been her chamber for all of her childhood – and did not speak anymore. She let the cape cover her marring wound. She would not immortalize her story, she vowed. It was short and gruesome and filled with shame and pettiness and regret. She would at least not be bound by her name and her misdeeds in the afterlife.

And that was where he found her. She saw him first in the mirror and thought for a split second that perhaps she was finally moving on. But when she turned, there he was, pearly white in the dim stone room. His clothes shone still with her blood, silver now, speaking of his crime for all of time. Speaking of it for him.

And she understood. He could not be free either. They were bound in this, in their last moments, the first bloodstains on her mother's noble school. It was still not fair. Nothing ever was, and she would see that it was not simply that way for her as the centuries swept past. But his silver bloodstains showed his repentance. It was not enough, but it would do.

**A/N: Okay, a bit of a throwback from my normal stuff. I've never tried writing ghosts or so far from the main storyline of the books, but I've wanted to, so you'll have to tell me what you think. I don't anticipate very many chapters like this, but I figured the founders' era might come up in this. I like the flexibility of being able to go whenever the word fits. I hope you enjoyed this, even if it wasn't what you were expecting. **


	27. February 22

_Ad rem__: without digressing; in a straightforward manner_

**February 22, 2005**

Ginny collapsed into the armchair with a groan. Her round belly ballooned out in front of her, eight months pregnant.

"There's no way you're going to be able to get me out of this chair," she groaned. "I hope you don't mind me giving birth in your living room. You'll hardly even notice, I promise."

"Of course you _had _to pick the best armchair for your month-long camp," Ron mock-grumbled, throwing himself onto the couch.

"Two votes to one," Ginny smirked, rubbing her stomach. She winced. "Alright, alright. No one can feel you agreeing with me but me," she grumbled.

"Is he kicking?" Hermione asked, perching on the edge of Ginny's armchair and hovering her hand tentatively over Ginny's stomach.

Ginny grabbed her hand and pressed the palm over her bellybutton for answer. Hermione let her breath out in a little "oh".

"Now imagine that on your bladder. All the time," said Ginny.

"One more month, love," Harry reminded her, squeezing her hand as he dropped into the chair on her other side.

"Don't think I haven't forgotten who did this to me," Ginny said, narrowing her eyes at her husband. "It's your genes that have him ready to come out fighting."

Harry smothered a laugh in his cup of coffee.

"I want a baby," Hermione announced suddenly.

Ron nearly fell off the sofa and Harry choked on his coffee.

"A w-what?"

"A baby," Hermione repeated calmly, sliding over to the arm of the sofa and looking earnestly down at her own husband. "We've been married a year and a half. I think it's about time."

"Definitely a conversation I'm not comfortably hearing," Harry muttered, shoving his mug aside and leaping to his feet.

"Don't even think about leaving me here, Potter," said Ginny, crabbing his elbow.

"You're the one that knocked up my sister," Ron called as Harry half-carried his wife out of the room. "I've got to see the evidence every day! Come on, no leaving a man behind!"

But the kitchen door had already closed. Swallowing hard, Ron turned his eyes back to Hermione. He tried to smile.

"You – you're just saying that because you went shopping for baby stuff with Gin today," he tried nervously. "Just wait until the kid actually comes – all screaming and gooey and completely unorganized. You don't want that right now."

He looked a strange mixture of cornered and hopeful. Hermione laughed. She slid under his arm.

"It's different when it's _your _screaming, gooey, completely unorganized responsibility," she told him. "I'm not saying I want one this very moment…."

Ron visibly sagged.

"…But someday – soonish – I think I'd like a baby. It took us seven years to _kiss, _five to get married…. Ron, if we don't start talking about this soon, it could be ten years before we get around to it. My parents aren't exactly young, you know. And they haven't got as long as your parents do."

"But – but a _baby_?" Ron almost whimpered.

"There not so terrifying, really," Hermione assured him amusedly. She rubbed his arm. "All I'm saying is maybe we could start thinking about it."

He looked at her eyes, dancing with the excitement of their futures.

"Think about it. Yeah, yeah, we can start there. But – blimey, Hermione, warn a bloke before you go springing something like that on him next time," he grumbled.

"It would be appreciated," Harry's muffled voice came from the kitchen, over the noise of the kettle whistling, dishes clanking, and chairs scuffing the floor.

"Best to get straight to the point," Hermione laughed, raising her voice loud enough for Harry and Ginny, hiding in the kitchen, to hear.

**A/N: There you have it. Back to today's word. I'll have to catch up with the rest soon. Perhaps a bit abrupt here, but that was the point. Hope you liked it. Read and review? :D**


	28. February 23

_Plenum__: a full assembly, as a joint legislative assembly_

**February 23, 1998**

"Is everyone here?" Neville called, keeping his voice quiet even though he knew the Room of Requirement would seal in all sound for him.

Ginny stood up beside him, doing a quick headcount as the murmuring group turned toward them.

"That's all twelve of us," she said, trying not to sound disheartened.

There were still thirteen chairs grouped around the table, and fifteen more gathered round the walls, even though most were merely symbolic. Half of the DA had graduated since Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gathered it together two years ago. But the other half should still be students filling these chairs. And they _would _come back. Until then, Ginny and the rest would just keep their seats ready and waiting.

Next to Neville, on the other side of the empty chair waiting for Luna, Lavender, Parvati, and Seamus pulled their heads away from each other, Parvati slipping her gold coin back into her pocket. They'd been trying to get a message to Dean's family. Seamus had left them his own gold coin so that they might be informed if anyone heard anything about Dean.

Beside them, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner leaned forward, pushing a scrap of paper covered in lines and arrows towards the center of the table. Hannah Abbot chewed her thumbnail nervously as Ernie muttered something about silencing charms to Susan, who looked pale. Zacharias Smith sat glumly at Ginny's left elbow. He didn't really want to be here, but he still had his coin and they couldn't afford to let him slip out of their sight.

"Right," Neville said, clearing his throat. "I know there aren't very many of us, but we can't just sit around and do nothing, can we? Losing Luna…" he faltered. "That was tough. But she'll be back. So we've got to have some good news for her, right? Terry, have you got a plan?"

Terry Boot jabbed his piece of paper and the arrows and lines began squirming along like Oliver Wood's old Quidditch plays used to. Only this game had far higher stakes than the Quidditch cup. And they all could feel it.

It was rare that Neville and Ginny decided to try something that needed all twelve members (well, eleven really) of the DA that were still at Hogwarts. But things were getting worse and they were getting desperate. Ginny thought she'd go mad if she didn't do _something_.

As a tall grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight, Seamus led the group out of the room and into the corridor, clutching Terry's battle plan (so to speak; they very much hoped they didn't have to battle anyone tonight, but the thought loomed in the back of their minds as it always did). Neville and Ginny were the last to leave the room. They both looked back over their shoulders at the twenty-eight vacant chairs lining the walls and circling the table.

"My brother used to tell me that the only wishes that ever came true were made at midnight," Ginny whispered.

"Then I wish that a year from now we'll be able to fill all those chairs again," Neville whispered back.

**A/N: Back on track! This portion of the story always fascinates me. What was it like for **_**them**_**? I guess that's the biggest question I pose to the fanfiction world. What was it like for the Marauders? For the next generation? For the professors? For the other kids watching the trio? **

**Well, I hope you liked it! Review please? :) **


	29. February 24

_Adamantine__: Utterly unyielding or firm in attitude or opinion_

**February 24, 1989**

"I'm coming!"

"No you're not."

Ginny planted her hands on her hips and set her jaw, looking fiercely at her older brothers. "You're letting Ron go," she pointed out.

"But I'm older than you," Ron reminded her, tugging his boots on.

"Only by a year. You're eight and I'm seven. If you can go, so can I."

"I'll be nine in a week," Ron said hastily as the twins exchanged a look. He shot a glower at Ginny standing in the doorway.

"Look Gin, this is for boys," Fred tried to persuade. "You wouldn't like it anyway. It's just a bunch of loud noises and bright lights."

Ginny rolled her eyes in a very un-seven-ish way. "It's _fireworks_. That's not a boy thing, that's an everybody thing. And it's Mr. Lovegood's fireworks. You _know _they're going to be good."

"You can see them from your window," George tried to placate. "You don't need to come tramping through the snow with us."

"Then why are you going?" she shot.

There was a creak over their heads and all four children froze, staring at the ceiling.

"If Mum catches us, we're dead," Fred hissed.

Ron scrambled to his feet and George jumped down from the counter.

"If you're not a snitch, you can come next year," Fred told Ginny.

"You'll be at Hogwarts next year," she reminded him, hurrying across the kitchen as her three brothers opened the back door.

"You can't come, Ginny. You're not old enough," Ron hissed, pushing her back as she made to slip out with them.

Ginny's eyes grew stormy. She shoved Ron out of the way and marched out into the yard. The night was icy beneath a velvet, star-strewn sky. Off in the distance, towards the hills, a spark flew skyward.

"Come on, Gin, Mum'll have a fit if she finds out this late!" George said almost pleadingly.

Ginny ignored him. She climbed up on the slippery rungs of the gate and slid down the other side.

"Well? Are you coming or not?" she asked, looking back through the gate at the boys clustered on the porch, gaping at her.

The twins exchanged a look. Then, with equally bemused grins, hurried across the yard and vaulted the gate.

"Haven't got all night, Ronniekinz!" one of them called over their shoulder.

"But –" Ron said indignantly, stumbling as he ran to catch up. "But you didn't let _me _come last year!"

"You took 'no' for an answer," Fred shrugged, leading the way down the moonlit road towards a clump of trees where they could get the best view of the Lovegood's annual fireworks display. Of course, the sneaking out in the middle of the night part was really the most fun, but it was always worth watching the fireworks.

Ron shot his sister one more resentful look as the four of them hurried along in the darkness. She merely smiled at him. If there was one thing having six brothers had taught her, it was never yield.

**A/N: Meh. Not my favorite, this one. I love Ginny and her brothers, but I think I didn't do it justice here. Ah well. What did you think? :)**

**To Essalinn: I can't PM you, but I'll answer your reviews here. Yes, Pachyderm does mean elephant, but it also means someone who isn't sensitive to insults or criticism, which is the definition gave me for the word of the day, and so the one I used to write the story. I'd love to PM you and talk more about your review, but you've got it disabled, so I hope you read this! And also, could you give me an example of an 'overly lengthy' description? It's just I'm not sure I understand which parts you think I should cut back on, since these little bits aren't all that long and not exactly all stories. Thanks :) **


	30. February 25

_Bandy__: to pass from one to another or back and forth; give and take_

**February 25, 1976**

The Gryffindor Chasers stole the sky when they played. They swooped around the pitch, so fluid and graceful and unified in their movements that it was hard to believe three separate minds were behind the coordination. They streaked and swooped in wide, intertwining paths among the other players, shooting the Quaffle from one to the other as though it were a part of them, much too fast and unpredictable for the other team to break their ranks. It was an act not even the Seekers' heart-pounding dives could quite compete.

James scarcely thought about what he was doing. He barely looked over his shoulder to assure himself his teammate was waiting before letting the great red ball roll of his fingers. He did not have to listen for the soft thud of leather-on-leather to know it had reached its mark. And without even looking up, he snatched the Quaffle out of the air again when it was dropped down to him.

The secret to their success was simple: an unerring trust that the others would be where they needed to be, ready to do what needed to be done, thus eliminating the faltering thought and hesitation that slowed down the other team. James was the best at it. He sent the Quaffle spiraling off into open air with no doubt it would reach its mark and was already speeding towards his position, ready to open his grip and take it up again without even watching its progress. And so he was the fastest, the most agile.

His blind trust made him the star of the team, propelled him to soaring victories.

"How can you _do _that?" Peter asked in amazement after the match, as the four of them hurried along a narrow passage, arms laden with butterbeer and sweets to impress the rest of their house with at the victory party. "You don't even _look_!"

James shrugged. "We're a team. We win together or lose together. If I can't trust them to catch my passes, we don't deserve to win."

"Did those borderline-modest words just come out of James Potter's mouth?" Sirius asked, feigning shock. "The very same bloke who, not ten minutes ago, was accused of being an overly conceited git with a head the size of Portugal by the lovely Miss Evans?"

"Stuff it, Padfoot," James muttered, shouldering a smirking Sirius into the passage wall.

If there was one thing James Potter was unwavering in, it was his trust. You couldn't win a game believing that someone on your team might let you down.

**A/N: Ooo, prophetic. I hope the relevance of these prompt words is openly apparent in all of these chapters. Beyond the obvious literal definitions, that is. I often fail to convey the connections I make in my head, I think. But you are all quite intelligent, so I have faith that you pick up on what I'm getting at! :) Please review! **


	31. February 26

_Hircine__: of, pertaining to, or resembling a goat_

**February 26, 1910**

He crumpled up yet another soiled piece of paper covered in scratchy writing and tossed it angrily into the fire. Words never came easy to him. He would much rather get his point across by punching or hexing or breaking things, and when that didn't work, shouting brought out his best effort with words. But writing? Forget about it. For the past hour he had tried, but everything he came up with sounded feeble or accusatory or awkward.

And besides, his handwriting was probably illegible anyway. Even if he did manage to put down in ink exactly what he was trying to say, no one would be able to read it.

He sighed in frustration and heaved himself off the stool he'd nicked from the bar below his room. Mr. Hibbs wouldn't notice, and anyway, he at least owed him _some _kind of furniture. It wasn't as if the dishwasher's salary at the Hog's Head could afford much. Out of the little window he could just make out the towering spires of the castle, glittering in the dark night. Of course that's where his brother would end up. He turned back to his dim, messy little room.

The letter crackled in his pocket and he pulled it out. That neat, narrow, slanting writing poured over the yellowed parchment with grace and ease. Of course they did. He dropped the letter with disgust and it fluttered down to the dusty floor.

Why was he even bothering to respond? Twelve years. He'd kept this up for nearly twelve years. His brother probably wasn't expecting a response anyway. And what good reason was there for him to be surprised? After everything he'd done… or everything he _hadn't_ done, his brother deserved worse than being ignored.

No he didn't. They would never – could never – be close. But they never had been to start with. They were two separate breeds entirely. But they were the only ones left, and after all, the letters seemed to carry sincere remorse. He had been called a lot of things, but he would not be petty. She wouldn't have wanted that.

But every response he wrote was worse than the last at getting that across.

So instead of taking up the crumpled quill again, he pulled his wand out and, after a few sputtering attempts that yielded nothing but silvery mist, a great silver animal – a goat – shot out of the end, leapt right through the window, and barreled off in the direction of the castle.

That would do, he thought, dropping back down onto his stool to wait. His brother would understand, would figure out where to find him. After all, he was renowned as one of the brightest minds of the age.

**A/N: okay, maybe the fact that I didn't use any names in this was confusing and tiresome, but for some reason I liked keeping this vague. We all know who the two 'he's and the 'she' mentioned are, so hopefully it wasn't too bad. I'll admit when I first read this word I was like 'you've got to be kidding me. What am I supposed to do with that?' but then I remembered Aberforth! :)**

**Thanks a bundle to all my lovely reviewers! You guys rock! (hint hint)**


	32. February 27

_Flexuous__: full of bends or curves; sinuous_

**February 27, 2009**

Folds of satin skirts swirled, long silvery braids flew through the air. Slight, willowy bodies, one tall, the other small, mirrored each other in graceful arcs, leaps, and spins. Sweet music poured from the spinning golden gramophone in the corner, singing violins and laughing pianos sped the dancers on their way.

As the music wound itself down, the little girl stumbled, tumbling to the carpet as her dizzying spins caught up with her and she overbalanced. Letting out her breath in a puff of frustration that sent a few loose strawberry-blonde hairs dancing, she sat up and watched the older girl finish the dance with an expression of reverence and longing.

Her aunt swayed and spun and curled in on herself, arching her back as she threw herself into the last notes of the music. Her lithe figure seemed to mold to the melody, mimicking light and water and air, the little girl thought, as with one final, passionate twist, she folded herself to the floor in a plume of skirts and gracefully twined limbs.

There was a beat of silence in which the young woman held perfectly still in that sculpted pose, and her niece feared for a moment that without the music, she might have turned to porcelain. Then her head came up and she beamed at the little girl.

"Tres Magnifique, ma belle! You 'ave been practicing, Victoire, no?"

Victoire nodded, pushing her wayward braid out of her face as her aunt untangled herself and sprang lightly to her feet. She pulled Victoire up beside her and fondly smoothed her hair.

"Ze grace of a true _ballerine_, ne c'est pas? Per'aps you will go to ze academy, aussi."

But instead of glowing with pride or squealing with excitement as her aunt expected, Victoire merely turned and flopped down on the sofa with a sigh. The young woman's pretty face folded into a frown. She swooped down and gathered up Victoire in a tangle of arms and legs, tickling her until she was giggling fit to burst. But the moment she let her niece go, Victoire's gloomy mood seemed to return.

"What ees it, ma Cherie?"

Victoire rolled over and with the drama befitting her mother said, "I _fell_. I can't do what you did. I can't even make it through one song without messing up. I can't be a dancer like you, Aunt Gabby."

To her dismay, Victoire's aunt laughed. She covered her mouth at Victoire's nonplussed expression.

"Je m'excuse, but one fall does not stop you from being good! I 'ave been practicing at the Academy for years, now! Do you think I 'aven't fallen in all that time?"

Victoire shrugged, biting her lower lip in a sheepish smile.

"Ze trick ees seemple enough. You must just be fluid in all you do. 'Ere, come. I will show you."

Gabrielle took Victoire's hands and led her back to the middle of the living room. She guided her through the moves slowly. "Eef you are off-balanced, you mustn't fight, or gravity will pull you down. You must _flow _into ze next position. Work with ze fall, not against eet."

Victoire tried to heed the advice. It took some effort not to try to correct her tipping, but she managed to tumble gracefully this time, landing in a position that didn't break her dance so completely. She grinned up at Aunt Gabby, who exclaimed "Exactement!"

At that moment, loud shrill cries of "Auntie Gabby!" Came from the kitchen, and Victoire had to practice her new graceful tumble as her brother and sister came barreling into the living room, fresh from shopping for Louis's birthday dinner and not about to let Victoire hog their adored aunt.

Victoire didn't mind the interruption though. After all, it _was _Louis's fifth birthday, the whole reason Aunt Gabby was there in the first place. How could she resent her baby brother today? Besides, to be a good dancer you had to _flow_.

As it turned out, Victoire never did enroll at the Wizarding Academy for Dramatic Arts, where her aunt would one day teach ballet. But she would carry that day's lesson around with her for the rest of her life.

**A/N: Alright, I'll admit I rather like this one. I dunno, something about Fleur's sister and her kids just piques my interest. The French is courtesy of Google Translator, so I hope it's all okay. I take French, but I don't pretend to be brilliant at it, so I doubled checked everything. Also, I found a reference to the Wizarding Academy for Dramatic Arts in the Tales of Beadle the Bard. I'm not sure if it's strictly theatre, but I'm going to say dance and other arts are included there as well. Right, well, hope you liked it! :D Reviews would be lovely… **


	33. February 28

_Pettifog__: to bicker or quibble over trifles or unimportant matters_

**February 28, 1996**

_Crunch… crunch… crunch_

Hermione let her breath out in an irritated gust and looked up over her Ancient Ruins homework. Across the table they were sharing in a corner of the common room, Ron was sprawled in his chair, one foot up on the back of a nearby sofa, chewing loudly on a peppermint toad. Sweet wrappers littered the table, sticky crumbs of peppermint scattered over his own homework. And to her further irritation, Hermione saw that his eyes were fixed dazedly on a group near the fire, watching Lavender and Parvati making paper cranes out of their old transfiguration quizzes with a stupid little half-smile.

"_Must _you?" she demanded in a voice slick with disgust – for his eating habits or the smile she couldn't say. Probably both.

"Wha'?" he muttered, looking around at her.

She sighed again.

"You are such a _pig, _Ron! For heaven's sake, I'm surprised the windows haven't cracked form how loudly you've been gnawing at that thing."

He looked down at the half-eaten toad in his hand with vague surprise, swallowed the pieces in his mouth with a loud gulp that was worse than the chewing, and looked at her for approval, rolling his eyes.

"Is that better, your highness?"

"Well, it doesn't kill you to have some common _manners_!" Hermione snapped.

"I'm so sorry," Ron drawled. "I won't eat again until I've found a spell that lets me bypass _chewing_ for your comfort."

"First you'd have to learn what _chewing _is! There's no need to drool over everything edible like a wild animal. And some things _not _edible," she added, casting a sharp glance towards the fire.

Ron flushed. "What d'you mean by that?"

"Just that maybe you could remember from time to time that you're friends with a _girl_, as you so brilliantly noticed last year before the Yule ball, and act civilized once in a while."

She delicately shook a few wayward peppermint crumbs off her book.

"I'm civilized," Ron said indignantly.

"Really? Could have fooled me."

"Just 'cause you're so uptight you can't have your textbooks out of alphabetical order doesn't mean we're all crazy."

"You're insufferable."

"Ditto."

"Do you even know what insufferable means?"

"It's got 'suffer' in it, so it must have something to do with listening to you."

"Why do I even hang around you?"

"Ditto."

"Shut up."

"Di –"

"So help me, Ron –"

At that moment, the portrait hole swung open and Harry appeared. He trudged toward them looking pale and sweaty, and dropped into the seat beside Ron, rubbing his temples.

"Don't _ever _let Snape play suppressed-memory-recovery inside your head," he mumbled.

He slumped forward, burying his face in his arms. Ron and Hermione looked at each other anxiously, their trivial squabble already faded.

**A/N: I'm sorry, but this word SCREAMED Ron and Hermione :) Hope I did it okay. I've missed writing them. Thanks a MILLION for all your feedback! Tomorrow should be interesting. I'll have to check leap years before I pick a date! :D **


	34. February 29

_Quadrennial__: Occurring every four years_

**February 29, 1988**

Ron Weasley had to stand on tiptoe to see over the high counter. His mother thought he was outside playing with his brothers and sister, but he'd sneaked inside to have a peak at tonight's desert. The large green birthday cake was pushed to the back of the counter, all frosted and decorated with yellow candy snitches and jellybean Quaffles and black licorice Bludgers. All it was waiting for now was a ring of eight candles (_eight!)_.

He folded his arms on the counter and rested his chin on them, staring contentedly at the birthday cake. He could already taste it. Of course, today wasn't _exactly _Ron's birthday. Normally his birthday was in March, the first day. Ron liked it because it was the only time he got to be first in anything. Today was the _last _day of February, a ghost day his father called it this morning. Ron didn't exactly want the one day of the year that was for him to be a ghost day, but his mum had already decided that today was when they would celebrate. She'd made his favorite breakfast and piled his little stack of gifts on the table already, so he'd have to share his day with the ghost. But ghosts were mostly not here anyway, so it wouldn't be too bad.

Cautiously, looking around to make sure his mother wasn't about to come back, Ron reached out a finger and dipped it into the frosting delicately puffed around the bottom edge of the cake.

"Ronald Weasley!"

Ron jumped so bad he nearly fell over, and there was a cackle of laughter from the doorway. Fred and George came into the kitchen and leapt up onto the counter on either side of him. Fred admired the cake, taking a swipe of frosting for himself.

"That's the upside to having six siblings," he said. "You get cake all the time. Mum's done a good job with this one, but it's missing the candles."

"Dad'll put 'em on tonight," Ron told him, sucking the frosting off of his own finger.

"Why not save him the trouble?" George said, pulling open a cupboard door and producing a box of striped birthday candles.

Ron watched suspiciously as his brother drew two candles out and placed them carefully in the top of the cake. Then he put the box away.

"There should be _eight_," he said with a frown.

"But you're only turning two," George told him as though he were in fact talking to a two-year-old.

"Isn't the wittle baby cute?" Fred added, pinching Ron's cheek.

Ron smacked his hand away. "I'm _eight_!" he insisted.

The twins exchanged looks as if to say 'isn't he precious?'.

"Sorry Roniekinz, but you know you only get a birthday when the day you were worn comes 'round," George told him.

"You were born on the 29th of February," Fred went on.

"And usually we skip that day. There's only been one other 29th of February since you were born, so really this is only your second birthday."

"Mum just pretends all the other years so you don't feel left out."

"But pretty soon you'll be too big for that and you'll only get a birthday every four years."

"But that's not fair!" Ron exclaimed.

The twins shrugged. "Shouldn't have been born on the forgotten day, should you?"

"You know why they call it the ghost day?" Fred asked, lowering his voice to a spooky tone.

"'Cause all the kids who get born today start to disappear along with leap day," George whispered, joining in.

"They get forgotten, just like today."

"You're lying," Ron interrupted, trying to sound like he didn't believe a word of their story. But his throat was squeezing tight.

"Are we?" George asked mysteriously. "Don't you remember our brother Stu? He was born today, right after Bill but before Charlie."

"Of course he wouldn't remember him," Fred intoned. "He was forgotten."

"You're lying!" Ron repeated, stamping his foot this time.

"Boys? What's going on?" Their mother's head appeared around the door. Immediately her eyes zeroed in on the finger prints in her frosting. Fred and George had already leapt off the counter and bolted for the door. "Wait a moment, you two –" But they were gone.

Mrs. Weasley sighed and crossed the kitchen to repair the damages. "I thought I told you lot to stay outside until your father got home, and to stay _away _from the cake."

A muffled sniff made her turn to look at her youngest son, still standing motionless in the middle of the kitchen, green frosting painting his fingers guilty. She found the wetness in his blue eyes as instantaneously as she had spotted the finger marks in her frosting.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked in a much softer voice, running a hand over Ron's hair.

"Did I have a brother called Stu?"

His answer was the last thing she was expecting and she had to work hard not to snort with laughter. But she could tell he was upset about whatever this had to do with.

"No, dear. I know all of my sons' names and not a one of them ever came close to Stu."

But this didn't seem to cheer him up. A shrewd suspicion crept into her mind and she glanced out the window where she could just see the twins running about in the yard.

"What did your brothers tell you?" she asked with a heavy sigh.

Ron was really getting too big for her to lift, but she wasn't quite ready for him to stop being her little boy, so she hoisted him onto the counter anyway, the better to look into his face. It only took one look to coax the story of Stu, the forgotten leap day Weasley out of Ron.

"I want to be _eight _today, and I _don't_ want to be forgotten!" he wailed.

His mother wrapped him in a tight hug and kissed the top of his head.

"You are definitely eight-years-old today, and nothing in the world could make any of us forget you," she promised. "You know better than to listen to the twins. They just like to wind you up."

"I know," Ron muttered, sniffling some more.

His mother pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket for him.

Ron knew he was too big to cry, too old to let the twins mess with him. But the really scary thing was that when he thought about it, it wasn't so hard to think maybe he was starting to be forgotten sometimes.

"Can I have March first again for my birthday?" he asked his mother. "It comes every year."

Mrs. Weasley laughed a little bit and ruffled his hair. "Yes dear, you can have March first for your birthday every year if you'd like. We like to celebrate you at _least _once a year."

**A/N: Yeah, so this is late. :/ sorry! I sort of maybe procrastinated last night because I got caught up in an amazing book, but double post today! Yay! :) And it's extra-long to make up for it, although the next chapter will probably be shorter…**

**Anyway, I love Ron :) I thought it would kind of be perfect to have Ron born on the 'forgotten' day. My aunt is, and her birthday is usually March 1****st****, too. I figured this sort of thing with his mother isn't all that common with all his siblings around to take her attention away. **

**Well, hope you liked it! See you soon! :D**


	35. March 1

_Alembic__: Anything that transforms, purifies, or refines_

**March 1, 1975**

His family always liked class. They only took the _best _silver goblets, the _finest _robes, the _most expensive _wines, and the _most refined _guests into their home. And they owned so much of the world. Why should it be any different?

Narcissa watched him slip on the black cloak. He could see her in the mirror, elegant form leaning against the post of his lavish bedframe. She was truly as lovely and pure as the flower she is named for, he thought. Her expression was calm and cool as ever it was supposed to be. But he saw the corners of her mouth pulling upward as he pulled the hood over his white-blonde hair, and it made him proud to call her his fiancé.

He turned to her, and in the privacy of his chamber, with the rashness that belongs to youth, she kissed him hard. A few dizzying moments later, they broke apart. He tugged the hood straighter so that his face fell in shadow, and she stepped back with a nod.

As he swept down the wide, stone staircase, Lucius Malfoy's determination solidified. He knew she understood what he was doing – that it even impressed her. It would be natural instinct to step back from this bloody affair. But he was no coward. He would show her he was a husband to be proud of, too.

His family only took the best. And he would give her a world of _only _the best, the purest of blood. It would be messy – it had to be. But someone must act as the filter, the purifiers. She had already chosen him, of course, but the beautiful Narcissa Black caught the eye of many men. How could any other suitor ever compare to him after this?

**A/N: Yup, shorter. But there you have it! I don't buy into the whole 'arranged marriage' thing. It seems pretty obvious from Narcissa's actions (especially in book 6) that she genuinely loved her husband and son, and I think Lucius really did love his family, even if he was twisted. Now, I don't exactly **_**like **_**the Malfoys, but I find them extremely intriguing and I don't hate them either. I've never tried writing Lucius before and I can't say that I really want to do it very often, but I hope I pulled it off okay. I figure trying to show off for his girlfriend was a compelling reason for Lucius to join the Death Eaters, among other things like self-preservation, thirst for power, extreme prejudice (to the point of being deranged) etc. **

**Anyway, as always, hope you like it and please let me know one way or the other! :D**


	36. March 2

_Cant__: to talk hypocritically_

**March 2, 2020**

Dear James,

How're things? I hope term's still going well, and you had fun on that Hogsmeade weekend you were so pumped about in your last letter. Mum wants me to remind you to keep up with your homework. I remember fourth year is about when they start kicking up the work load. Are you keeping an eye on Al and Lily for us? From Lily's last letter, it seems like it's the other way around.

Anyway, Mum and I are fine. Gran's lonely with all of you in school now, of course, but when we dropped by the Burrow yesterday it looked like she'd found something to occupy herself with. I'd expect a large hamper of homemade fudge in the mail soon. Teddy sends his affection and wants me to tell you to keep an eye out for turtles… whatever that means. I have a hunch it's got to do with whatever had you three up at four in the morning on Christmas, but I'm not going to ask.

So, anyway… there's something else I needed to talk to you about. I dropped by the Leaky Cauldron the other day – and before you get up in arms about spying teachers and the whole world keeping track of you, Hannah wasn't the one that ratted you out. Ernie McMillan – you know, Emily's dad – was in there talking about Emily's latest letter home. And it happened to feature you.

Jamie, we had a deal, remember? We said you could go with Bill and Fleur to France this summer to see The Arrows train _if _you kept the detentions down. And it sounds like you're doing a poor job of keeping up the bargain. All this sneaking into Hogsmeade and running around the castle after hours and getting into things that are none of your business… well, you've got to rein it in. Sneaking into the forest in the middle of the night? Do you have any idea what's in there? And don't tell me Granddad's old car. Even _try _to fly that thing and you'll be spending the summer right here degnoming the garden.

Look mate, I'm not expecting you to suddenly start shooting for prefect or anything, but I don't want to walk into a pub and hear someone talking about how my son went looking for mountain trolls, okay?

Good luck with your schoolwork and the Quidditch final.

All our love,

Dad

**A/N: Oh Harry. How he could ever lecture his kids about staying in bounds and abiding by the curfew. :) In all honesty I found it harder than anticipated to come up with hypocritical things Harry would tell his kids to do. Harry didn't make trouble for the heck of it and there aren't a lot of Sorcerer's Stones around to get involved with. But Harry's bent the rules enough times. Anyway, as always, hope you liked, it, thanks for the feedback and please keep it coming! :D You're awesome!**


	37. March 3

_Liege__: loyal; faithful_

**March 3, 2006**

"Hey, stranger."

She hung in the doorway, her honey-blonde hair coiling around her face in elegant swirls she thought made her look classy. It didn't work. Her face was too broad, her nose too squished, her eyes too bulgy, and her makeup too thick to have class. But all the same, he couldn't stop something from leaping inside of him when her familiar voice broke the dusty silence of the library.

She sashayed her way into the dim, muffled room, and even though he knew her jewelry was too big to be real and her robes were too tight in that unflattering way, and her nails reeked of cheap polish, his mind went back to the folds of silver and green silk ten years before when, for just a moment, he had felt on top of the world. Before everything came crashing down.

She slid sideways into a leather chair and shook her hair out unnecessarily, then peered around at him, trying to flutter her eyelashes. "How long has it been, Draco? At least a year since we've seen each other."

"Yes, my wedding," he nodded, and even though he meant it as a hint for her, he found it sounded more like a reminder to him. She knew he was married; Astoria was probably the one to let her in.

"We shouldn't let it get so long," she said and flashed him a simpering smile she seemed to think was seductive.

She wasn't pretty. She never had been. But that wasn't why he had sneaked her into his dormitory ten years ago, and it wasn't why he had to keep twisting his wedding ring on his finger now. It had never had anything to do with Pansy Parkinson herself. Then it had been her reputation as the leader of the Slytherin girls; it wasn't just catching a big fish, it was catching the biggest. Now it was the memories. He hadn't really liked her, but when he'd been with her, he'd felt like he was a king, like he was destined for power and glory. And he missed that feeling more than he liked to admit.

He knew why she was here, why she had always gravitated towards him. It had nothing to do with who he was, he knew that. It was money and prestige – though now it was mostly money. She didn't come from old money like he did. In fact, the fact that she was here right now probably meant she was hard-up for cash. But the thing was, a part of him didn't really care. She'd get her money and he'd feel on top of the world again. It had always felt like they were destined for each other.

Pansy ran a hand through her hair. "How is Astoria these days, anyway? She said she didn't feel up for company today, so it'll just be me and you." She reached over and ran a finger down the side of his cheek. "I have to say, I don't mind."

"She's pregnant," Darco said. He stood up and paced to the other side of the library. Their wedding portrait hung on the wall, and he studied Astoria Greengrass's – now Malfoy's – face. She was the girl that nobody noticed. He hadn't noticed her until three years ago. She was the sort to be happy fading into the background. It wasn't a life he had dreamed of back in those folds of silver and green, but now it was the only peaceful life he could lead.

He was very tempted. No one would know. He might have the best of both worlds. What wouldn't he give to relive some of those glory days he'd been robbed of? Didn't he deserve them?

He turned back to her. "I'm sorry, Pansy, but you should go. It isn't a good time for company if Astoria isn't feeling well."

"What?" Her jaw dropped in shock.

He strode across the room to hold the door open for her. If he had learned anything from those brief glory days, it was that he would rather have an untainted reality than a grand delusion.

**A/N: Apparently the Malfoys weren't quite out of my system, but now they are! Okay, so this is late and it is inexcusable. So sorry! I spent all weekend writing one of my big climactic chapters for my story 'Timing is Everything' (about Albus Severus Potter and how he arrived in the world) and it kind of drained me writing-wise. Trying to catch up! **

**As a note for this chapter, I figured Pansy was kind of a wash-out, doing maybe some frowned-upon things to get cash, and she came around Draco and his family because she always felt like it should have been her and she wanted to feel like she was part of that upper circle of society. I don't think Draco really liked her buzzing around, but he felt just bad enough for her to tolerate it. **

**Anyway, of course reviews are always wonderful! **


	38. March 4

_Oracular__: ambiguous; obscure_

**March 4, 1974**

"Peter, get your bloody elbow out of my gut before I rip it off for you."

"Shh! Do you want Filch to find us?"

"Quit _twitching, _Moony. Merlin, you'd think this was your first night out of the castle."

"I'm _not _twitching… I'm just trying to keep watch."

"Alright, you let us know if Mrs. Norris comes at us from the ceiling."

"Wouldn't put it past her."

"Will you guys _shut up_ – Got it!"

"Good evening, boys."

All four of the Gryffindor fourth years nearly jumped out of their skin at the deep voice behind them. They spilled out of the alcove around a certain one-eyed witch, James hastily stowing something in his bag, and approximately fifty per cent of the group looking guilty.

"Good evening yourself, Professor," Sirius beamed. He would not be caught dead among that fifty per cent. "An excellent sky for stargazing, or so a centaur let slip to me earlier. They say Mars is bright tonight."

The headmaster surveyed the four boys with a bemuse smile. "I was on my way to get some hot coco from the kitchens. I rather thought most students would be tucked in their beds by now, but perhaps I forgot to switch my clock back from Hungarian time."

"No, no, we're just hopping along to our dormitory," James assured him, also offering a grin.

"Excellent, excellent," Dumbledore nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked at them expectantly and the four boys had no choice but to turn and pretend to be heading in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. "Oh, and boys?" Dumbledore called after them. They turned. "I've often noticed that more is said by things _not _there, haven't you?"

"Er… yes, Professor?" Remus said, the answer coming out as a question.

Apparently it was the right one, though, because Dumbledore nodded. "Very good. Now I'd best be getting my coco."

He doffed his star-spangled hat to them and disappeared through a door that had been pretending to be a patch of solid wall. Jams, Sirius, Remus, and Peter all looked at one another.

"What did _that _mean?" Sirius asked, raising his eyebrows.

Remus shrugged. "That's Dumbledore, being ambiguous since the nineteenth century."

"Right, well, we've got a clear shot, so let's get going," said James eagerly, pulling a fluid, silvery cloak out of his bag with a flourish and making for the one-eyed witch statue.

XxX

The streets of Hogsmeade were dark and deserted at ten o'clock at night – or at least that's what they looked like. But the bar tender of the Hog's Head had learned to spot certain peculiarities. He noticed when bushes rustled out-of-synch with the breeze, when prowling cats skirted a portion of the road for no evident reason, and when depressions rolled across mud patches of their own accord. He knew, and in the morning, his brother would know, too.

**A/N: :) Please review! **


	39. March 5

_Profluent__: flowing smoothly and abundantly forth_

**March 5, 1945**

The amber liquid spilled out of the bottleneck in a fair stream by the end of the night. Horace Slughorn laughed jovially at the wise remark of one of his budding students. He clapped one of the shyer boys on the shoulder, bringing out into the middle of the room, urging him to make connections. A group in the corner was singing. And Slughorn gulped down his mead and tipped the bottle again, coaxing the never-ending supply out into his crystal goblet.

There was always plenty of everything in his office, especially for such events. This was, he liked to think, the womb of the future greats. Important connections happened in these walls, and he would be generous and forthcoming with his luxuries to bring them about. All except with the mead. He did make sure to keep a close eye on that past the first couple glasses.

And as the old potions master waddled around his crowded office, his sweets and drinks, music and advice pouring forth like a river of fortune, a pale boy stood watching off to the side. He nodded politely whenever the others looked his way, usually with respect or admiration. He was the oldest here and clearly the one on top, although he stood to the side and merely took in the whole room with those dark, handsome, intelligent eyes.

Oh yes. It was the womb of the greats….

**A/N: There you go. All caught up now! Except for Feb. 20. I've got to get on that… Morceau… anyway, I know this one's short and not super exciting, but I hope you'll review anyway! :) Trying not to get redundant, which was why the first few ideas I had for this had to get scrapped. **


	40. March 6

_Appertain__: to belong as a part, right, possession, or attribute_

**March 6, 2004**

Only a few scattered, wooden pieces were left now. Their squiggled shapes lay on the hearthrug looking like they might all fit together, but Teddy knew better. He was a master puzzle-putter-together. Granddad Arthur said so himself, and he had more puzzles than anyone Teddy even knew. Teddy knew that even though they all _looked _like they might all snap together because they had the same curvy ins and outs, really they were all different. And you couldn't make a different piece fit with new neighbors. They weren't cut the same way.

He frowned down at the handful of pieces left without a home. That sharp one was a corner, he knew where to put it. Three left. That one was part of the dragon fire, there. Two left. But… there was only one hole to fill in. That couldn't be right. His tongue poked itself out of the corner of his mouth as he placed the last puzzle piece in its spot and looked down at a completed picture.

"Hey, Ted, you finished it," said Harry, dropping to the floor beside him and ruffling his hair. "That was fast! You weren't kidding. You're the master puzzler."

But Teddy kept staring at the last little left-out piece, and he didn't feel like a master puzzler. He just felt like a leaver-outer. Harry must have noticed that he wasn't pleased about finishing his puzzle.

"What's the matter, mate?" he asked, putting a hand gently on Teddy's back like he did when Teddy skinned his knee or had the flu or woke up from a nightmare.

Very carefully, Teddy picked up the lonely piece and offered it to Harry.

"It must be from a different puzzle," Harry said, examining the paint on it. "Look, it's got flowers. You wouldn't find flowers in a dragon picture."

"You could," Teddy said. "It could still fit."

"Nah, there's no more room. Besides, it needs to get back into its own box or someone else won't be able to finish theor picture," Harry told him, slipping the puzzle piece in his pocket.

"But what if it doesn't have its own picture?" Teddy asked.

"I'm sure it does," Harry assured him. "You did great with this one. I bet your gran wants to see it. She's in the kitchen."

He gave his godson one more smile and pushed himself to his feet to help Hermione stagger into the living room laden with a teetering stack of books. But Teddy didn't jump up to find his grandmother. He stayed lying on his belly in the middle of the Burrow's sitting room and watched as all the people came in.

Granny Molly –who wasn't his real grandmother, just like Granddad Arthur wasn't really his granddad, but he called them that anyway – fit in the rocking chair by the fire, right beside her knitting needles. Granddad Arthur went in the corner by the window where Teddy knew he kept a kit of little screwdrivers and bolts to fiddle with. Hermione went to the desk in the corner with all her books and Ron went to lean against the desk and be a 'nuisance', but Harry said she really liked him buzzing around her work. Gran – his real Gran = liked to sit in a chair by the stairs and talk to Granny Molly about cooking and 'old times' things. And Harry and Ginny went right on the sofa, all squished together and holding hands.

Teddy suddenly realized there wasn't a spot for him. The picture was all filled up. He scrunched up his face really tight, but it didn't make his throat stop squeezing.

But then Harry shifted over just a bit. "Are you looking for a seat, Teddy? There's room for you here."

Teddy mumped up and flew into the little pocket right between Harry and Ginny. Ginny wrapped an arm around him and started telling him corny jokes her brothers used to tell her, and Harry laughed and poked Teddy in the ribs to make him giggle, too, and Teddy was glad that people didn't have squiggly edges like puzzle pieces because it meant that pictures could be rearranged to fit in new pieces that didn't have pictures of their own.

**A/N: Oh Teddy! I realized that somehow I'd managed not to do any Teddy in the month I've been doing this, which I can hardly believe because I love that boy SO very much. So here's a little dose of Teddy. :) Hope you liked it! Review please! **


	41. March 7

_Rutilant__: glowing or glittering with ruddy or golden light_

**March 7, 2021**

Outside, a damp wind blew through the still-bare branches and whipped up droplets from the lapping lake. Clouds churned in the black night, and shadows swirled around the handful of windows still glowing in the castle. But tucked out of the cold in a forgotten corner of an underground harbor used all of once a year, all of this was kept at bay.

Three fourth years huddled around a small, but merrily crackling fire contained in a brass bowl. Embers glowed red-hot and leaping flames filled the small space with cozy heat and glazed everything in a warm, ruddy light. A few feet away, the boats bobbed and the water lapped against the stone. The three students – two boys, completely opposite in appearance except for a similar slight stature and pale complexion, and a girl with copper curls falling down her back – sat elbow-to-elbow, knees pressing up against each other.

The girl sat forward, warming her hands over the little flames – her little flames, actually. She was rather proud of how she'd honed the spell over almost four years of use. The two boys were laughing over something probably long-forgotten by now.

"Hey, Rosie, look what I've got," the dark-haired boy said suddenly, leaning back to pull a paper bag out of his school bag. He tossed it to her, grinning, and she caught it with a half-hearted, "Don't call me 'Rosie'."

Then she tore open the package curiously and pulled out a large, white puffball. Her face broke into a wide grin.

"Just like the marshmallows Mum used to get for our bonfires! Al, how on earth did you get these?"

Al leaned back on his palms, looking self-satisfied – not a common expression on his face. "I _might _have nicked them from a certain sugar-fiend's stash."

"James is gonna kill you if he finds out," the other boy – blonde and fair – said with an amused smirk.

"James owes me," Albus said, waving a hand unconcernedly. "He's been steeling my Christmas sweets since I was born. I wouldn't worry about it, Scorp."

"Not what you'll be saying tomorrow when he's got you in a half-nelson," Scorpius snickered.

Even Albus knew his talk was only big because it was the three of them, and in this undisturbed little corner of the school, with the blazing fire to drive away the cold and the dark and the fears and worries, they felt almost untouchable.

Rose started tossing marshmallows at the other two, and they took turns levitating them over the fire. They burnt their fingers and their mouths on the puffed-up, golden-brown balls of sweet, steaming, sticky goo, but they didn't even notice, too absorbed in talking and laughing and going back and forth as they always did.

Eventually they would have to put out the fire and trudge up to the castle, tired and sticky and cold from the night, and Scorpius would have to depart for his dungeon common room and Albus and Rose would climb alone up to their respective dormitories, but for now they lived on the thought that this golden moment would last a little bit longer.

**A/N: And there we have the next trio. Again, I'm surprised it's taken me this long to get around to them, too, since they are so often the focus of my writing. If anyone rivals Teddy for my affections, it might be Al. Anyway, I've alluded to this idea in some of my other stories, but now I've finally gotten around to writing it. Al, Rose, and Scorpius, facing the problem of two different common rooms, class schedules, and eating places, had the genius idea of meeting up in the harbor. No one even seems to remember it's there. **

**Well I hope you liked it! Thank you SO much to all my reviewers, especially those of you who take the time to talk with me about the individual chapters. You guys rock! I can't tell you how much your support means to me and to this story! :D**


	42. March 8

_Pococurante__: caring little; indifferent; nonchalant _

**March 8, 1970**

Students flooded down the chilly stone corridors, babbling about the bad weather, dropping books on accident or on purpose, calling out to friends. The flood of people vibrated with an overzealous amount of energy, making up for the classes on either side of this ten minute window of movement in which they would have to sit quiet and still. In the hustle and bustle, no one noticed the boy and girl who passed by each other without a word, without even a look, the indifferent expressions masking their faces. That is, no one except one fourth year girl.

"Dromeda! Hey, Andromeda! Wait!"

Andromeda Black turned impatiently to wait for her little sister to fight her way through the crowd. Narcissa popped up a moment later, brushing her long silver-blond hair out of her face and fixing Andromeda with keen, pale eyes.

"What do you want, Cissy?" Andromeda drawled.

"What's happened between you and Ted Tonks?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Andromeda asked back, turning on her heal to keep marching up the corridor. Narcissa scurried along beside her.

"You _know _what I mean," she told her sister, rolling her eyes. "You two used to be all buddy-buddy, and now you don't even look at each other in the corridors. I saw the way you looked right through him just now. He used to wink at you and grin and you used to nod back, but now…."

"Childhood affections," Andromeda shrugged, no emotion in her voice. "We've grown up."

"Just since Christmas?" Narcissa asked slyly.

Andromeda rounded on her, sighing impatiently. "Narcissa, he's a _mudblood_. I don't associate with Muggle-borns or waste my time caring about their feelings. I stopped nodding back and he stopped winking, and that's it."

"Are you sure it wasn't more?" Narcissa coaxed, her voice fluttering the way it did when she was trying to get new dress robes out of their mother or an extra galleon from their father. "Only I heard that the girl Ted dated last year, you know, Miriam Strout, reckons he's got a _new _girlfriend. Couldn't be that you're _jealous, _could it, Dromeda?"

"Please," Andromeda scoffed. "I wouldn't envy anyone who had to endure that Muggle stench all the time. Bella's right, Cissy, you hallucinate drama."

Andromeda tossed her long brown braid over her shoulder and marched away from her sister, huffing with exasperation. She rounded a corner, then paused to check that Narcissa was not following her, and slipped into a secret passage hidden behind a tapestry.

Ted Tonks leaned against the back wall, pockets in his hands. In the dim light, she could just make out his smile. "Laying it on kinda thick, aren't you? Surely I don't smell _that _bad."

Andromeda blushed. "You could hear that?"

"Air channels," Ted explained, looking up at a gap between the wall and ceiling far above their heads.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Just copying Bellatrix, as much as it makes me sick. It's the only way Narcissa will believe me."

He nodded, stepped forward. And she fell into his arms.

Andromeda Black's newest trick: the only way to protect the things you love is to wrap them thickly in layers of indifference.

**A/N: Hi! So it's me. I'm failing at this lately, aren't I? This everyday thing. Really sorry. Get sidetracked! But I'll catch up! :)**

**So this is a tiny bit of a continuation of January 3 with Ted and Andromeda. I seem to like them quite a lot. Hope you do to! Please review! (no rhyme intended. Saw the Lorax the other day :D)**


	43. March 9

_Furcate__: To form a fork; branch_

**March 9, 1970 **

"Molly? Are you up here?"

Arthur stuck his head up into the cramped attic that had once been his bedroom, craning his neck to see around the boxes that, in the two years since he'd left school, seemed to have multiplied like gnomes. Sure enough, at the far end of the small room, he could see someone in a bright red apron huddled by the window: his wife of all of two months.

He pulled himself the rest of the way into the dusty space and began picking his way over to her.

"My brothers are downstairs," he told her, folding himself onto a box opposite her. "And the boys. Mum says my uncles ought to be arriving soon and then we'll eat. Are you ready to come down?"

"In… in a bit," Molly squeaked, keeping her eyes glued to the window.

Arthur shook his head, smiling bemusedly. "Honestly, Molly. What are you suddenly so nervous for? You've met my brothers before."

"It's just… different now," she muttered, taking the corner of her apron and rubbing a patch of dust on the window. "And I've never met your uncles and aunts and all your cousins…."

"They're going to love you," Arthur said confidently.

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet with a reassuring smile.

"How do you know?" She asked, reluctantly allowing herself to be led toward the steep staircase.

"Because I do," Arthur told her, and even though it was maybe the corniest thing he could have said (and she gathered he knew as much by the slight smirk that crossed his face), she also knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. It calmed her a little. But only a little.

XxX

Molly had never eaten at such a crowded table in her life. She and Arthur were crammed so close together, their plates were nearly on top of each other. Arthur was one of three brothers, and while Bilius had never settled down and no one could imagine him ever doing so without bursting into raucous laughter, Rupert had five sons all between the ages of two and ten and another one on the way. And Arthur's father was the youngest of seven brothers, all of whom had at least three sons a piece. And only about three of Arthur's cousins hadn't made it to the celebration. Factor in wives, children, and maiden great aunts (not on the Weasley side, of course), and Molly was not sure how they all even fit into the tiny kitchen, let alone at the same table.

And almost every one of those people older than about fifteen had turned to her at some point and said, "So you're the one little Artie's settled down with?" Most of them smiled cheerfully, but Molly couldn't help but squirm every time.

Eight o'clock found Molly leaning against the porch railing, watching Arthur's older brothers toss a Quaffle back and forth in the back garden as an excuse to rough him up in that brotherly way she had never quite understood. But somehow to them, pinning someone in a half-nelson was a sign of affection. Several of their cousins had joined in by this point, and even though they were all mostly-grown men, the back garden resembled something close to a schoolyard.

"So you're the one little Artie's settled down with?"

Molly jumped at the voice, whirling and blushing when she saw it was only Arthur's father. He chuckled a bit.

"I heard a few of them asking you," he said with an amiable grin that was so much like his son's. "Suppose it got tiring after a while, but the family had to check you out. Don't worry, I think you passed," he told her amusedly.

She offered an embarrassed smile.

"You seemed a bit anxious tonight, Molly. Hope we didn't intimidate you." Septimus went on, taking a sip of butter beer.

"Oh, not at all," she lied.

It wasn't a very good lie.

"Come now, Molly. I raised three sons – one of whom was Bilius. Surely we weren't _that _bad?"

Molly hesitated for a moment, twisting her fingers together. But there was just something about Septimus that enticed confidences. It was another thing he'd passed down to his son. "It's just that you're all so close, even though there're so many of you. Arthur's always telling me about running around with his cousins and his uncles and everything…. And I took him away without them even _meeting _me…. Not exactly starting on the right foot, is it?"

To her surprise, Septimus laughed. It was kind laugh – he was laughing at her, but not in a mean or condescending way. It was near-impossible for Septimus Weasley to be either of those things.

"We don't hold it against you," he assured her. "You might be taking him away from us – and alright, a little warning from the two of you might have been nice – but that's what children _do_. They grow up and branch out. Look around you," he gestured at the garden and the house, filled with people from several generations.

"Every one of them hopes that's the way it goes. Trust me, one day your little part of the family tree will branch out, and you'll know what I mean. My dad used to say something like, 'to grow a new tree, you've got to drop the apple'. Branching is a way of life."

He took another swig of his drink, nodded to her, and moved off to see what a few of his grandsons were doing in the flower garden.

And eventually Molly Weasley did know what he meant – when she stood at the center of her own overly-crowded house some forty years later and watched all her little blossoms tear around after one another.

**A/N: And there you have Molly's second lesson on family, this time delivered by Arthur's father. I kind of adore all the Weasleys, even the ones we never got to meet. Yeah, at the end, Molly's 'blossoms' are her grandchildren. I hope I got across what I was trying to get at… Please let me know if you liked it! **


	44. March 10

_Esculent__: something edible, especially a vegetable_

**March 10, 1974**

Pomona Sprout played a game of chance with the vegetable crop. Each fall, she harvested the rows of carrots and potatoes and cabbages and whatever else she'd grown. And for the most part, they were good. She always knew there would be a few rotten ones, of course, but she could tell which ones those were long before she pulled them up.

But once in a while, she couldn't. Once in a while, she would take a firm hold of a nice, leafy, green top and pull, only to find that the edible part was rotted through. There was always room for chance, for flesh-eating slugs to attack just one row, or an irrigation canal to overflow in one spot, but with every small heap of rotten plants she threw onto the compost heap, she always found herself wondering if she'd used too much fertilizer, planted too deep or too shallow, watered too much or allowed for too much shade. No matter what the percentage of the crop came out beautifully, those rotten few gnawed at her.

A twenty-year-old boy took up the second page of the _Daily Prophet_. He had sandy hair and wide blue eyes. He looked younger than twenty; he had always looked young and naïve. He had been arrested for aiding a terrorist group known as the Death Eaters. The journalist seemed to agree with the rest of the world what a pity it was that someone with so much life ahead of them would spend it in Azkaban. She talked about his budding career as a cultivator for St. Mungos' potions lab, his loving family, his top grades when he'd been in school.

They didn't mention his school house, but Pomona Sprout never forgot one of her students. He was the first one of hers to turn up on the other side.

**A/N: Short and sweet and to the point. Please review! **


	45. March 11

_Antipode__: a direct or exact opposite_

**March 11, 2020**

The Head Girl was crying. Molly Audrey Weasley sat at the top of a staircase no one ever came up, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. Undignified sobs echoed off the stone walls and several times she sniffled and wiped her nose with her knuckles. But she didn't worry about anyone hearing her or stumbling across her. No one ever came up here, and no one would be looking for her. After all, she had just completely alienated maybe the only friend she had ever really had.

He was Head Boy, she was Head Girl. Had it been so crazy to think that maybe there was something there? Probably. Just because a guy tries to make you laugh and says he doesn't mind having corridor patrol with you doesn't mean he's madly in love with you. It doesn't even mean he wants to kiss you. And even though it was probably the very last thing she ever wanted to do, Molly was miserable enough to admit that Dominique probably could have told her as much if she'd been able to humble herself enough to ask her cousin for advice.

"Molly?"

She had been so convinced that no one would ever look for her – and even if they found her, run the other direction for fear of awkwardness or detention – that the voice made her jump out of her skin. But that surprise was nothing to the shock of seeing who it belonged to.

Fred climbed the staircase, hands in his pockets and looking like he really didn't know what on earth he was doing here. But he sat down beside her (and stared at the floor) anyway. She gaped at him.

Of all of her cousins, Fred was the one she fought with the most. Molly was different from her entire family – except her father – but Fred was her complete opposite. She was seventeen and acted thirty. He was fifteen and acted five sometimes. She was studious, he was anything but. She was stubborn, he was easy-going. She had a fuse so short most people couldn't see it, Molly didn't know if she'd ever _really _seen Fred lose it. She was deadly serious, he was bursting with humor. She followed the rules, he went out of his way to avoid them.

They were like oil and water. But that's the funny thing about family; blood's thicker than both.

So it was Fred – the one who pulled her hair and put dung bombs in her trunk and went out of his way to tease her – who put his arm around her shoulders and let her cry a while on his.

**A/N: My very second attempt at writing Molly outside of my 'Discovery' series. I have big plans for her there, but haven't gotten around to writing very much of the rest of the Weasley cousins in my fics here. The Potter siblings just suck my attention. But anyway, there's a peak at my versions of Fred and Molly. This is kind of a landmark moment in their cousinly relationship. Hope you liked it! :)**


	46. March 12

_Remit__: to slacken or relax_

**March 12, 1979**

She sat at the back of the crowded room, craning he neck to see the door. There were only a handful of people milling about, anxiously waiting, just like her. But the back room of the abandoned Muggle shop in London that was serving as their temporary base was already crowded and she kept thinking she'd missed someone coming in.

"Lily, stop."

Lily hadn't even noticed she was drumming her fingers madly against the tabletop until Alice Longbottom gently put a hand over her own to still the motion.

Lily took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. It's just… I hate waiting."

Alice offered an understanding smile. "I know, me too."

The minutes crept by. A few more people arrived, but they hadn't been involved in Moody's plan at all. No news to bear. She swept her long red hair to the side and began braiding it, anything to keep her hands busy.

And then the door opened and a flood of people burst in. Lily and Alice jumped to their feet as the Prewett twins led the procession with loud cries of greeting to everyone in the room. Sirius was right behind them, obvious victory burning on his reckless face. And James was at his shoulder, punching the air, proud gaze sweeping the room for her.

Lily tackled him, knocking him back a few steps with the force of her hug, but he took it in his stride, sweeping her low into a dramatic kiss that had Sirius calling for them to get a room and Fabian and Gideon wolf-whistling.

A few steps behind them, Alice had flung herself at her husband and he was spinning her in a tight circle. Remus and Peter emerged out of the darkness, pounding Sirius and James on the back, asking for details. Marlene McKinnen took up the story, her bubbly voice spilling out above the clamor. Moody slammed the door behind them with a growl, barking reprimands about careless behavior even though there were a dozen wards around the entrance.

The meeting quickly fell into order. Lily sat tucked under James's arm, Sirius and Remus on either side of them and Peter leaning against the wall behind. Frank and Alice whispered across the room, Marlene tipped her a wink from Moody's right side, Gideon and Fabian were shooting identical cocky grins at Emaline Vance and Mary McDonald in opposite corners of the room. Professor McGonagall cast a stern look in Benjy Fenwick's direction and he quickly dropped the note he'd been about to pass to Edgar Bones, looking as guilty as a schoolboy.

And even though they were in the midst of a war, discussing plans of attack in a room full of people fully aware that some percentage of them wouldn't come back at some point, Lily let herself breathe freely for just a moment. The tension seeped out of her for just a little while and she let her guard slacken for now. Because these few minutes were the only times all the people she cared about were there in one room beside her, and she didn't have to worry what was happening to them elsewhere.

**A/N: There you have some original Order stuff. It's from Lily's point of view, so maybe not as explorative of side-characters as one of my awesome reviewers suggested, but I'll get around to that eventually! I do work with some limitations – having to comply to the word of the day and the first good idea that comes into my head, as well as the date (there is only a very small window to do Remus/Tonks/Teddy moments in, etc.), but if you've got suggestions or people you like to hear about, I'd love to hear them! If you go to and click 'more' under the word of the day, then go over to the right where it shows some of the recent ones and click 'more' again, you should be able to find the list of January words I have yet to catch up on, and if you've got ideas for any of them, hit me with 'em and I'll see if I can give them a go, but no guarantees when I'll get around to catching up on those. **

**Anyway, please review! :D**


	47. March 13

_Astringent__: sharply incisive; pungent_

**March 13, 1998**

The stars winked down at Dean Thomas as he lay on his back on the damp ground. They seemed to hold him in their distant spotlights, a million eyes pinning him there, and it piqued his instinct to run. Dean didn't used to run. He had always preferred to face the things that frightened him, fight over flight. Running away was what cowards did. It was what his dad had done. And there had always been a part of him that hated his father for it, even after he started suspecting the motives behind it.

But now… running was all Dean could do. He'd run just like his father. And he kept running. From shadows in the woods and cloaked figures in the distance. From fireworks and thunderstorms and anything that might get him caught. Dean ran now, and a part of him hated himself for it. But there was no other way to stay alive.

He turned over. The moss, the smell of decaying wood, the rankness of the muddy river, the fumes from a chemical plant churning whose desolate concrete walls glowed in security lights a few miles downstream, the odor cut into his nose and throat, burned his lungs. Reminded him that he was barely hanging on to the fringes of society. He was the prey now. And no matter how cowardly it felt, prey could do little more than run and hide.

He thought about his mother, about the last time he'd seen her, the way she'd hugged him like she knew he wouldn't be there in the morning. Just like his father all those years before. He thought of his sisters and how they'd had no idea. How his stepdad had done everything for Dean and what a repayment this was. He thought of Seamus who'd promised to do everything he could to keep them safe. Dean just hoped he could keep himself safe.

He wasn't running away from them, Dean decided. He was running _back _to them. All of this was so that one day they would all be back together. He was running towards that. And when two dark figures detached themselves from the shadows on the other side of the river and made to duck the fence at its banks, that thought was what propelled Dean to his feet and sent him sprinting back into the cover of the trees.

**A/N: I was just thinking about Dean today and wondering what it was like for him. I really like him and his story. Recently it's quite intrigued me. Also, at this point I'm pretty sure he was still traveling with Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell and the Goblins. Assume they were hiding somewhere close-by in the trees, even though it sounds like Dean was alone. It was just easier not to slip them in. But they were around. **

**Thank you all so much for your reviews and suggestions! I'll get around to replying to them soon, but there's a book that I've been waiting for for ages that just came out today and I've got to go procrastinate other things to read it right now! :D But you could leave another review and double your chances of hearing from me! :D**


	48. March 14

_Dowager__: An elderly woman of stately dignity, especially one of elevated social position_

**March 14, 1016**

The grounds were too quiet now. They lay beneath a muted cover of mud and dormant life, between the peaceful, still beauty of winter and the buzz of summer. The trees did not yet bud with the promise of new life and the grass remained brown and dull. But the lake shimmered in the afternoon sun, casting brilliant specks of light across the stone. It was the only pretty place in the grounds at this time of year, she thought. So that was where she went most often.

Their age was ending. She could feel it. Half a century before, they had been building a kingdom, but now the kingdom was built and the monarchs were fading. Godric was already gone. He had never been quite right after Salazar's departure on bitter terms. And she had not felt quite right since Godric's death that winter – had it really been so many years before?

Without them and with the children gone, the castle seemed a lonely place. Especially in that strange time between spring and winter. But its corridors were still walked by a gaggle of young witches and wizards. New teachers taught in the place of those lost. So Rowena walked straight-backed and kept sharp eyes on her students' work and maintained the impression that she was still working towards something rather than fading away from it.

Helga found her by the lake. Helga always found her. Few words needed to pass between them anymore, and for a long while they sat in silence. But eventually Helga broke it.

"Do you suppose all this will last without us?" she asked, eyes sweeping the vast grounds, the few students messing about on the opposite shore of the lake, a herd of centaurs trotting along the edge of the forest.

Rowena sat straighter on the pile of stones she was perched upon – her throne Helga called it. Her gray hair was bound up in a wreath about her head and even though she had been wondering the same thing only moments before, there was no hint of doubt in her regal voice when she said, "Indeed I do. Helena would not let it crumble, and after her there will always be others who wish to learn and then to teach now that it is here. These walls will transcend time."

She had only needed to be asked the question to find an answer to it. She – the cleverest – could not fail to answer a question.

And maybe that's what she was working for, even as she felt her age slipping farther and farther away.

**A/N: =/ Founders' era is hard. Why do I pick it then? Because honestly Rowena Ravenclaw was the only person I could think of for this word. And I'm not sure I really did a very good job of using it. But anyway… I suppose I could have picked a Black or McGonagall again, but Rowena was what filled my mind. So I went with it. Review? **


	49. March 15

_Iniquitous__: characterized by injustice or wickedness; wicked; sinful_

**March 15, 1988**

Hermione stood on a stool at the kitchen sink. A pile of soapy dishes had gathered in front of her, waiting to be rinsed and dried, but the dish rag hung limply at her side, her gaze on the quickly-fading dusk out the window. Her mind was plainly elsewhere; among the knights and monarchs of her history books, at the bottom of the ocean with the silver fish darting all around, wondering through the Greek myths immortalized in the constellations, whatever had taken hold of her insatiable curiosity lately.

Her mother straightened up from wiping the table and a fond smile played on her face when she noticed her daughter's progress (or lack thereof) with the dishes.

"What are you thinking about, love?" she asked, joining her at the sink and tossing the damp cloth into the dish water with a wet _plop_.

"Cloud formations," Hermione told her. "Those are cumulous," she added, pointing at the layer of clouds just visible against the dimming sunset. "Some people think they can tell the future in the clouds, but you can't. It's all random wind patterns and temperature fluctuation and things like that. Clouds are all science."

Mrs. Granger shook her head with an amused smile and smoothed her daughter's hair. "So I suppose I was right thinking your head was in the clouds?" she said, pointing down at the pile of dishes Hermione hadn't touched.

Hermione looked down at them and reached for the faucet with a slightly guilty expression. In the living room, a clock began to chime. Mrs. Granger caught her daughter's hand and spun her like a dancer off the stool.

"Sounds like it's time to get upstairs and pick out a book," she said, and the moment she hit the magic word, Hermione's eyes lit up.

"But…" Hermione said, face falling as she gestured back at the pile of dishes in the sink.

"Why don't we let Dad take care of those tonight?" her mother asked, putting her arm around Hermione's shoulders with an inclusive smile.

Hermione beamed. That was all it took for her to go racing up the stairs. By the time her mother had caught up with her, there were three books lying on Hermione's bed and she was weighing them in her hands, trying to decide between them.

"What do you think, Mum? Jungles of South America or the biography of Winston Churchill?"

Mrs. Granger dropped down on the bed next to the books and sent them jumping away from her. "They both sound intriguing, sweetheart," she said, examining her daughter's serious face. "But why don't we read a storybook tonight?"

"Winston Churchill's biography _is _a story," Hermione insisted, holding the book up pleadingly.

"I mean something _fictional,_ Hermione," her mother said with a gentle laugh. "Don't you ever want to explore magic castles and go on adventures with dragons and mermaids?"

Hermione looked uncertainly at the bookshelf designated to those kinds of books – the ones filled with made-up things. Aside from the fact that she had never quite seen the point of reading things that weren't real, those books scared Hermione more than the snakes of South America or villains of medieval times. At least she knew for sure that as long as she stayed out of the joungle and away from the fifteenth century, she would never have to worry about those things. But the tiny, irrational possibility that the evils of shoes supposedly 'made-up' stories might jump off the pages was one she couldn't shake so easily.

But her mother was looking at those books with an excited gleam in her eye, so Hermione wen to stand before the fairytales and adventure books and run her fingers along the titles. Her father said it was best to face your fears head-on. So Hermione stood on her toes to pluck and plucked the most frightening of all the stories off its shelf, then, clutching the leather-bound tome to her chest, ran back to the bed and climbed up beside her mother.

Mrs. Granger looked at the book that had been dropped in her lap. "Ooo, this was one of my favorites," she said happily, pulling Hermione close to her side. "_The Wizard of Oz_…."

Hermione was sure there was no one more frightening than the Wicked Witch of the West. But she kept her eyes wide open, bravely leaned over to see the bright picture of the green-faced hag, and laughed loudly as she melted into a puddle at the end.

And as her mother tucked the covers around her and kissed her forehead, Hermione reminded her – if only to hear the words aloud – that of course, none of that was real. There was no Wicked Witch.

It was one of the things she took comfort in when all the other storybook creatures started walking off the shelves and into real life, throwing all her dreams and nightmares into reality with them. But the moment she saw Bellatrix Lestrange and felt the shiver run up her back, Hermione knew she'd been wrong about that, too.

**A/N: Took me a while to get around to the prompt, didn't it? But the whole story stemmed from it… hope you liked it! Reviews are graciously accepted! :)**


	50. March 16

_Gasser__: something that is extraordinarily pleasing or successful, especially a very funny joke_

**March 16, 1999**

Ginny Weasley had gotten accustomed to many changed things in the last year – the new, smooth stone walls on the west half of the seventh floor, the angry, crimson scar that sometimes peeked over the collar of Harry's T-shirt, Ron and Hermione actually snogging behind the broom shed – but a frustrated, scowling George would never be one of them. She stood half-concealed in the shadow of the stairs, watching him bend over the kitchen table, which was cluttered with scraps of parchment, broken quills, springs, scattered screws, and a few rubber eyeballs.

George let out an irritated growl as whatever he was trying to make fell to pieces in his hands.

"This is pointless!" he burst out, seizing a rubber eyeball and flinging it across the room. There was a loud clang, a smash as the ball ricocheted off the kettle and into a flowerpot above the sink. As soon as the crimson petals of the plant landed in the soapy dishwater, a small eruption shook the kitchen, the faucet was blasted off, and water began spurting out of the pipe up at the ceiling.

"Perfect. Absolutely perfect," George muttered.

He reached for his wand, but the instant his fingers were around it, there was a loud _ribbit_. Next moment, a rubber frog dangled from George's hand. It revolved a few inches as he stared at it, taken aback, and the moment its protuberant eyes met his, a long pink tongue shot out and stuck to his forehead with a smack. Behind him, the sink continued to spurt out water and the sink began to smoke.

George blinked, a rare expression of not knowing what to do next crossing his face. And then he started to laugh. The sound was so rare these days that Ginny actually closed her eyes for a moment, a grin breaking out across her cheeks.

"What d'you think of my new product design?" she asked, sauntering into the kitchen.

George pulled the sticky frog tongue off his forehead and dropped the rubber amphibian on the table with another ribbit.

"_Your _design?" he asked, giving her an incredulous look.

Ginny smirked. George shook his head, sinking back in his chair.

"Whoever gave you permission to use magic out of school didn't know what they were setting on the world."

"_Me? _How about _you, _Mr. Charm-Everything-Within-Ten-Feet-of-Me?"

George cracked a grin that looked a bit rusty.

"What are you doing hanging 'round here, anyway?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. "I thought you were supposed to be trying to stay in school now that your boyfriend's back in one piece again."

Ginny shrugged. "_Technically_. But there's nothing to do there with nearly everybody _here_. I can apparate now. And weren't you the one that told me nothing's against the rules until McGonagall tells you it is? Besides, I never thought I'd be saying this to you, but someone had to be around to stop you from taking things too seriously."

George glanced down at his scribbled note sheets and failed prototypes and his eyes grew dark again. Unwilling to see her brother disappear so quickly, Ginny grabbed the rubber frog and tossed it into his face. He caught it, looked down at it, and a low chuckle escaped his throat.

"Mind if I patent these?" he asked, looking up at her. "Might be the only merchandise we'll have in the shop for the grand reopening."

"How about I sell it to you for free merchandise for life," Ginny offered, putting on her best wagering expression (and growing up with six older brothers honed a good one).

"Keep me from being too serious, and you've got a deal," George said, grinning.

"You've got it," Ginny promised.

**A/N: Alright, this took me a ridiculously long time to write. I had quite a lengthy draft going, but it sucked, so I started over and ended up with this. Really sorry I'm so far behind. It's funny. Despite the fact (or maybe because of it) I update all my other fics on the weekends, this story seems to get off track toward the end of the week. I'll try to catch up, but I've already spent too much time writing this tonight. :/ Review please! :) Also, idea goes out to kittikatlova for this one. :)**


	51. March 17

_Selcouth__: strange; uncommon_

**March 17, 1991**

Harry didn't know what time it was. His cupboard was always dark, no matter what time of day, and more often than not cold and dampish this time of year as the melting snow and driving rain edged into the outside wall. He tried to listen for sounds of his aunt and uncle moving around in the kitchen or upstairs, but sleep still clung heavily to his thoughts, and he couldn't tell if he had imagined noises or not.

The air had a scent of clamminess in it, but his blankets were warm and he burrowed into them, drifting, staring up at the underside of the stairs. A small spider crawled its way along the backside of a step. Harry could just make it out by the miniscule light that came in under his door from the kitchen. But it seemed to have overstretched its abilities (perhaps it was a young spider, Harry thought dazedly) because just as the nearly-transparent wisp of a creature was over his face, its gossamer cobweb snapped and sent it plummeting through the darkness.

On instinct, Harry put his hands over his face, expecting to feel a feathery scampering as the spider fled back to its home out of sight. But it never came. After a moment, he peaked through his fingers. Maybe he _was _dreaming because the spider hung suspended in midair a few inches above his nose, waving its pale legs in a rather helpless gesture. Harry couldn't see any string holding it up.

He moved his hands and the spider moved to. Very gently, with a constant buffer of several inches of air between his palm and the bug, Harry pushed the spider back up to the ceiling of his cupboard. As soon as it made contact with the wood, it scampered away.

_Strange_, Harry thought. His arms fell limply to his sides and he turned over to bury his face in his pillow. It was the sort of thing Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn't like. They would call it unnatural. Most people couldn't move things around without touching them.

Harry turned his eye to squint at the swirl of dust visible near the crack at the bottom of the door. Dreamily, he reached out a hand and drew a smiley face in midair. His fingers were several inches from the dust cloud, but a smiley face appeared in it anyway. Somewhere Harry knew most people couldn't do that, but here in the dark, half-awake, it seemed as easy as tugging on a balloon string and watching it bob. He couldn't fathom how other people _couldn't _make things like that happen. It seemed like one of the most natural things in the world. In fact, he was sure other people could do it, too.

**A/N: Well I guess I didn't have as much to do as I thought I did. Harry doesn't seem to **_**try **_**to do magic from what I can gather from the books, not the way Lily does with the swing and the flower. But I figure he must have had some control of it if he wasn't so afraid of what his aunt and uncle would do if they caught him at it. He seemed pretty convinced in Sorcerer's Stone that he didn't really make strange things happen, but I figure he could just chalk stuff like this up to a dream or not a real memory. Eh, what did you think of it in general (or in detail, I like that too :D)? **


	52. March 18

_Brisance__: the shattering effect of a high explosive._

**March 18, 1998**

Another house was on fire. Flames leapt into the star-strewn black sky, catching on trees that crowded in thickly around the shabby, tumbledown old house. Collin dove into the undergrowth as the windows shattered behind him, hauling Dennis by the elbow. All around them, dark shadows fled into the woods, other Muggle-borns skittering like mice from their burrow. Spells flashed in the open space between the house and the forest, and he could hear Snatchers howling with laughter at the sport.

In the half-light, Collin felt for a place to hide. He found a shallow dip at the base of a low pine tree and shoved Dennis into it before wriggling down beside him. The branches pressed against their backs as mud seeped into their fronts and all they could see through the needles was the roaring orange light.

"We'll be alright," Collin whispered in his brother's ear, trying to drown out the noise of their third safe house crumbling to ash. "We're always alright."

"It's gonna blow!" some rough voice cried and a stampede of snatchers thundered past their hiding place, dragging their captives behind them.

Collin threw himself over Dennis as an explosion rocked the forest. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed Dennis's face into the ground, winding his fingers through his brother's mousy curls as heat rushed over them like dragon's breath and flaming chunks of debris rained down on all sides. He could feel Dennis shaking hard enough to make his teeth clack together. When he opened his eyes, he saw one of Dennis's round, brown eyes staring vacantly at him.

Collin pulled him back further into the protection of the tree's damp roots and wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders. "It'll be alright. We'll find the others in the morning, at the rock, and get a new place."

Dennis said nothing.

They stayed under the pine tree until the forest was frosted in the gray light of dawn. Dennis might have slept fitfully, but Collin scarcely blinked, even when the trampling footfalls of the snatchers and their raucous calls had faded. He barely dared to breathe in the hushed silence of the burned wood. But when it was light enough to see, he cautiously squirmed his way out of their hiding place. Once he was sure there was no danger, he reached back and hauled Dennis out after him.

Crouched double, they half-ran, half-crept through the shadows, jumping at every snap of a twig or rustle of branches. Collin's heart was pounding in his mouth by the time the peak of the great rock came into view. He and Dennis stumbled against the stone, now sweeping every shadow for anyone who had escaped capture. This was the meeting place. They had one at every safe house in case this happened. It had happened three times since Christmas. The woods were perfectly silent. There didn't seem to be anyone waiting in the gloom for them. Dennis sank down to the dirt, staring at the empty clearing, and Collin stood over him, listening hard.

A falling stone nearly gave him a heart attack. Collin spun, pulling Dennis behind him reflexively. Justin Finch-Fletchly grinned down at him from the top of the rock. He skidded down the steep side next to them.

"Coote thought you might've gotten yourselves caught this time," he told them as others dropped out of trees on all sides. "I told him you were too good at burrowing."

Collin couldn't stop grinning from relief as Justin flung an arm around him in a rough hug, proving he really had been worried. But his relief congealed into dread as he looked around at the others, searching for missing faces. "Who's –?"

"Now that you're back, no one!' Justin cried gleefully, rousing a couple of birds from their nests in neighboring trees.

"Justin, shsh," Jess Bagley hissed, nudging him. But he was too jubilant to care. "Let's get a fire going and start talking about a plan, yeah?"

The others huddled around the bluebell flames Justin had carried around in a jar all winter. He was the only one of age among them. Most of the of-age Muggle-borns went off on their own because they couldn't use magic around the underaged without bringing the whole ministry down on them, but Justin had stayed with them. Collin leaned against the freezing rock beside his brother.

"Hear that, Dennis? They didn't get anyone this time. Bet it was the explosion. Musta got out of their really quickly after that."

But Dennis didn't say anything, just kept staring at his knees. He hadn't said anything in a long time. His silence burned away the last of Collin's relief at finding everyone else safe. The familiar anger roiled in his stomach once more, leaping into his chest like the flames that kept bringing down their homes. Not at his brother. Never at Dennis. It was the people who had made him like this that Collin wanted to slam to the ground.

He stared at Dennis, small and pale and fourteen out here in the soggy, half-frozen woods, having seen his friends and classmates dragged off in the dead of night. He'd never be the same. And Collin hated it. He hated them. And he wouldn't rest until he'd struck back at them for what they'd done.

**A/N: Either I write a ton or hardly anything. This was almost 300 words, then I wanted to add something and now it's 900. Anyway, sorry to fall off the wagon so quickly. Went to see a doctor out of state and the trip was a bit hectic. I've wanted to write this for a long time, but just haven't gotten round to it. Then I read a chapter about Collin in 'Candles' by My Dear Professor McGonagall (you should read it if you haven't :)). Hope you liked it!**


	53. March 20

_Vernal__: appearing or occurring in spring_

**March 20, 2012**

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the glass ceiling. Outside a clear blue sky foretold of coming warmth, but the landscape was still only just starting to turn green, buds barely popping on the trees. The bareness of winter was quickly fading, but the abundance of summer had yet to take root.

Inside the greenhouse was another story entirely. Flowers as big as sunhats burst out of their pots in the corners, hung from the ceiling. Plants of all shades and varieties swayed in rows, giving the somewhat steamy glass building a jungle-esque quality.

Tiny fingers reached for the little purple bulbs just budding on the back table. Neville gently caught the hand groping for the fragile blossoms, chuckling at the indignant squeal of its owner.

"Best not to touch those, angel," he said, tucking the small hand against his chest.

The little girl sitting in his arms regarded him with her big, blue eyes, pink mouth slightly open. A halo of wispy, golden curls ringed her head, and her hand found its way into that open mouth. She squawked some unintelligible noises and turned her attention to the purple skirt of her dress, examining the cottony bunnies that adorned it in honor of the first day of spring.

Neville smiled to himself and tucked his daughter's head under his chin, rocking her a little as he turned to survey the rest of the room.

The shrieks and squeals of small children reverberated around the glass walls, but at first glance, none of them could be seen. Then a bright red head popped up behind the begonias: Rose examining a handful of glittering gravel she'd collected from somewhere. Under the table beside her trainers, Al sat cross-legged, digging in the dirt with a stick, his own small collection of treasures at his knee.

"Neville, look!" someone was tugging on his elbow. Lily cradled in her hands a large grasshopper and was evidently delighted by it. Behind her, Hugo poked his head out from under a table, eyeing Lily's new friend cautiously. Alice shrieked in Neville's arms and withdrew her chubby, bare legs up into her skirt, clinging to his neck.

Somewhere out of sight there was a clattering bang, followed by James's call of "It's not broken!"

"I got it," Teddy grinned, sliding form his perch on the desk where he'd been fiddling with seed pouches and going to investigate James's shenanigans. His bright blue hair kept him from disappearing into the greenery like most of the others.

Victoire swept her long braid out of her face and bent down to get a closer look at Lily's grasshopper, effectively distracting the four-year-old.

Neville leaned back against a table and let his gaze wander over the bright new faces; the new shoots just poking out of a ravaged landscape. The old scars of winter still shone through, almost painfully. But it was only a matter of time before the new blooms covered them.

Alice was once more reaching for the purple buds, a yearning cry bubbling up on her lips. Neville lifted her high out of reach of the plants, blowing raspberry on her cheek to turn her cry into a piping giggle. Her purple dress fluttered.

**A/N: I'm not sure that I've articulated my feelings very well here, but I'll just have to hope my metaphor has the desired impact. Anyway, just a quick note on Neville and his daughter. If you look on my timeline, you'll see that Neville's oldest daughter (nine months old in this) is named Alice Amilia Longbottom. I imagine her going by Ami rather than Alice when she gets older for reasons I hope to disclose somehow at some point in one of my stories. So if in the future Neville suddenly has a daughter called Ami and not one called Alice, you'll know what's going on. **

**And here comes your daily reminder to be ever so kind and drop me a line or two! :)**


	54. March 21

_Conniption__: A fit of hysterical excitement or anger_

**March 21, 1976**

Sirius ran away in December. The twentieth of December. Regulus had rounded on her with the furious question of "why didn't you stop him?" but she had not even flinched.

"Because, be it on the streets in or in some blood traitor or half-breed's den, he will die out of this house. And Blacks have a notorious sense of self-preservation," she had told her youngest son with the stoic manner so ingrained in her.

But Sirius was not back by Christmas. Nor even by New Year's. She didn't find it strange, though. No doubt he was still too ashamed. He had always been extraordinarily good at sulking in corners and stubbornly averse to slinking back with his tail between his legs, no matter the benefits it might serve. But it was only a matter of time.

Her husband didn't think so. By New Year's he had quite moved on. Sirius was gone, no longer their problem. They had always known it was coming, hadn't they? They'd tried their hardest, but there had been something born in him that they couldn't rectify.

But still she did not remove him from the family tree. One taste of the real world and he would be sick from the sourness, she was sure. Sirius had never been good at enduring. His childhood was one long stream of complaints and howling in her memory. He would be back, and he would finally have had some sense knocked into him the hard way.

Perhaps that was why the letter pushed her over the edge. She stood quite still as she read her youngest son's neat pen. Sirius said he'd gone home for Easter. He'd come back to school with his hair finally trimmed properly, ragged Muggle trainers replaced with proper dress shoes, and hadn't gotten into a fight once since term started. Regulus was impressed. He hadn't thought his mother would be right.

But she hadn't been right. Because Sirius hadn't been home. Mrs. Potter had politely owled them to at least let them know of their son's whereabouts at Christmas. And it looked like she had succeeded everywhere Walburga had failed. There was a split second when she realized he was never coming back and before she convinced herself it was because she was never taking him back, and it was that second that must have ignited her.

She screamed at the top of her lungs. She threw the letter into the fire and stormed up to that foul bedroom of his. But no matter how many flames she threw at the posters, pictures, and banners plastering his walls, none of them would catch fire. And so she threw things instead, ripped pages from discarded books, all the while shrieking about what disgusting traitor he had turned out to be. By the time she flew into the drawing room, her hair was a mess, her eyes were quite popping, and any evidence of stoicism that ought to have been instilled in her was long, long gone.

She found the name embroidered in gold at the base of the tapestry and this time there was a satisfactory flash of flame, a scorching smell, and all evidence of him and his betrayals was blasted away.

**A/N: Don't you think Walburga was a nice fit for this word? :) Review PLEASE! :D**


	55. March 22

_Moschate__: having a musky smell_

**March 22, 1998**

Arthur had never really liked Molly's great aunt Muriel. To be fair, no one really did. But sitting on her lumpy parlor sofa that night, he thought he might have to rethink his opinion. Perhaps it was just his head still spinning from the crazy past half-hour (or, quite possibly, the slightly nauseating musky sent that seemed to permeate the entire house), but, Arthur reflected, there were probably not very many people who would usher in five bedraggled and sooty fugitives and their hastily-packed luggage at three o'clock in the morning without even the slightest hesitation.

For all her complaints and gossiping, there could be no doubt now that Muriel Prewett came from strong and noble blood. The same blood his wife and children came from. Speaking of….

"Molly," he said softly.

She didn't move from the window. The long sheers of the curtains hid her from view, but he could make out her outline keeping watch over the back garden where their eldest son had disappeared twenty minutes ago. And where he promised to reappear and give them some answers.

Arthur sighed and looked over at the fireplace. Ginny and the twins were huddled beside the hearth, heads bent, whispering to one another. Fred's arm was around Ginny's shoulders and George had drawn his knees up to his chest. It was hard to recognize the independent and wildly successful businessmen his nineteen-year-old sons had been only that afternoon. And Ginny… thank _Merlin _she'd been home. His mind kept flashing to what might have happened if she'd still been at school….

But she hadn't been. She was fine. She and the twins were fine. Right in front of him. It was the other four he needed to worry about. So ingrained was the habit from nearly thirty years of fatherhood that Arthur didn't even notice the checklist that automatically streamed through his head. Charlie was fine, safer chasing dragons in Romania than here. Bill was fine – or at least he had been a few minutes ago, physically anyway. Percy – Arthur had never thought he'd be grateful for his son's estrangement before this moment, but hopefully the two-year disassociation would keep him safe. And Ron… Ron.

Arthur's stomach lurched with fear. Bill had not explained much as he'd stumbled into their kitchen thirty minutes earlier, told them to grab anything important, and ushered them out the door. But there could really only be one reason for going into hiding….

Unable to sit still on that uncomfortable sofa, breathing in the dizzying aroma of the candle burning beside him, Arthur got up and slipped behind the sheer beside his wife, joining her in the vigil. He could feel her shoulder shaking as it pressed against his.

A flash of memory popped up in the back of his mind: the boys splashing about in the shallows of the river. It must have been nearly fifteen years before, but Arthur could still see Ron's vivid head suddenly disappearing beneath the rippling water. In the three seconds it had taken to jump in and pull him up, he didn't think his heart could pound so fast. The last eight months had been like those first three seconds he had lost track of his youngest son.

Molly suddenly gasped beside him, clutched his elbow. A figure had appeared on the back step with a pop. The curtains were already fluttering behind Molly as Arthur turned to meet Bill at the door.

"Bill!" Ginny cried, flinging herself into her brother's arms the moment he was inside the house.

"What's happened?" Molly demanded desperately, grabbing Bill's forearm.

"Ron and the others –?" Arthur started and he could hear the fear in his voice.

"They're alright," Bill interrupted before he could even finish the question. "They were caught, but they're going to be alright. We've got them at Shell Cottage, and we're not letting them slip away. They're alright."

Arthur sagged with relief. Ginny actually sank to the floor. Molly burst into tears. Bill put his arm around her.

"Come on. I've got a lot to tell you."

And he led the way into the dining room. George pulled Ginny to her feet and the three of them hurriedly followed. Arthur brought up the rear. He could already hear Bill starting the explanations. And a new feeling of fear mixed in with the dizzying relief of finally, _finally _knowing that his youngest son was alive: the fear of knowing what had happened to him while he'd been gone.

**A/N: I always wondered what it was like on this end of things. I hope you liked it. Thanks a whole ton to every single person who reviewed! You guys are great! ;) Keep up the trend, pretty please! **


	56. March 23

_Ruck__: a large number or quantity; mass_

**March 23, 2010**

"There must be _millions _of them!" Luna gasped, straightening up and carefully edging her way along the outcropping of rock.

This was what she loved about her life: an afternoon of hot, difficult work hauling herself up a steep rock face, scraping her hands and nearly falling twice, a sunburn already working its way down the back of her neck (which she'd forgotten to cast a sunblocking charm on), but here she was, finally reaping the enormously satisfactory reward. There were just some places you had to work to reach, and the tumbling cliffs overlooking Wetterlo Bay and its endless, sparkling blue water was certainly one of them.

It was the first magical wildlife preserve Luna and her globe-trotting partner, Rolf Scamander, had ever helped to create the last time they'd been in the Caribbean at the beginning of their decade-long circumnavigation of the world. The Wetterlo island bird had been next to extinct back then due to the magical properties and beauty of their royal plumage. But now –

"That's incredible," Rolf breathed beside her, gazing over the glittering bay dancing red and purple with the swooping water birds. He looked down at her, the awestruck expression lingering, his orange hair whipping about in the breeze. "Looks like we really did something amazing after all."

"Looks like we did," Luna agreed, looking up at his sparkling blue eyes.

This was what she loved _the most _about her life: sharing that soaring feeling of accomplishment with the one person she knew understood it as completely as she did.

**A/N: And there's finally some Luna! I can't believe how easily my favorite characters get missed. Hope you liked it! :) A nice, warm, pretty picture for any fellow northerners waiting for summer. (Although here in the Midwest it seems to have decided to come early just to confuse us all.) And if you had any doubts before, reviews of any length and *mostly* any content are always appreciated! :D**


	57. March 24

_Adroit__: cleverly skillful, resourceful, or ingenious_

**March 24, 1996**

Daphne Greengrass didn't spend much time with the rest of the girls she shared a dormitory with. Pansy Parkinson was the ring leader, and girls like Pansy weren't happy unless they had someone towards whom they could direct all their disgust and disdain. Oh, surely there was more than just one person on the receiving end of Pansy's sneers and condescension, but Daphne served as the example. Just because you were a Slytherin fifth year didn't mean you were automatically in the club. You still had to toe the line, lest you end up keeping the Greengrass girl company. And of course, nothing brought coyotes together like tearing apart prey.

Yes, the loathing between Daphne and Pansy had started even before they'd gotten on the train, although neither girl remembered exactly what it stemmed from. Some half-remembered dinner party both their parents (wealthy, though not anywhere close to the old families like the Malfoys or the Blacks) had dragged them to, or perhaps just a chance meeting in Diagon Alley that had not gone well. Either way, most of their fellow Slytherins considered it a sign of doomsday if Daphne and Pansy started getting along.

Daphne had no problem with this arrangement. She didn't really like the rest of her roommates anyway. If they weren't the creepy descendants of dark wizards, they were brutish or shallow or spineless and Daphne had no time for them. And Pansy didn't scare her like she intimidated Tracey Davis, or many of the younger students and even a few of the older ones. Daphne could handle her.

When she caught Pansy nicking her jewelry, Daphne flung Pansy's silver hairbrush (possibly the one nice thing she owned) into the lake and left a ransom note from the giant squid in its place. When Pansy snogged Theodore Knott in the middle of the common room (the only boy Pansy hadn't looked twice at until Daphne started writing his name in the back of her notebooks), it was easy enough for an advanced O.W.L. potions protégé to slip Tracey Davis an infatuation serum that had her sitting in Draco Malfoy's lap by the end of the day.

But there was a line that Daphne wouldn't let anyone cross. She didn't even know what it was until early spring in her fifth year, but the instant she saw her little sister running down the corridor in tears and Pansy and her court cackling behind her, she knew private retaliation would not be good enough. This went beyond a petty feud between a couple of classmates. Pansy could pick on all the rest of the younger girls, but she wasn't ever going to bother Astoria again.

A month later, when Dumbledore had gone, and the Weasley twins had made their spectacular exit and unleashed pure chaos behind them, Daphne made her move. No matter how much she wanted revenge, she was not about to let herself get caught, so she'd waited for the perfect cover. No one had any hope of tracing the hex back to her with all the mayhem. And anyway, who besides Pansy Parkinson would ever suspect quiet little Daphne Greengrass, loner of Slytherin house of giving a fellow student a stubborn pair of moose antlers even Madam Pomfrey had trouble removing?

**A/N: Finally found some time to write this! Hope you like my little backstory for that one line in OotP. :) Review, yes?**


	58. March 25

_Tellurian__: of or characteristic of earth or its inhabitants_

**March 25, 2016**

"…and they can _fly_ and _breath under water_ and they've got _three _eyes and the technology to blow up entire _star ships_!" the eight-year-old redhead's shrill voice carried over the noise of the crowded shopping mall as he bobbed excitedly between the two old men, clutching a comic book in both his hands. There were already sticky smudges on the glossy cover from the sour gummy worms he'd been sucking down since lunch.

Arthur Weasley and Paul Granger exchanged amused looks over their grandson's head. As Hugo was his only grandson, Mr. Granger liked nothing better than to treat him to a day at the cinema. And since Rose was not such a fan of the action films packed with aliens and brave explorers that meant they could also stop into the comic shop across the way. And since Arthur was forever asking eager questions about this sort of Muggle thing, Mr. Granger had decided they might as well invite him along and make a party of it.

"I'm telling you," Hugo chattered as one of his grandfathers steered him toward a vacant bench in the middle of the sunlit mall atrium. "Earth is just so _boring_ when you've read about a whole other _galaxy_."

Mr. Granger gave him an indulgent grin and ruffled his bright red hair. "I dunno, Hue, I bet your mum could make you three-eyed and purple-skinned and able to breath underwater if you gave her five minutes."

"But it's not the _same _as being born that way," Hugo lamented, slumping back dramatically in his seat and letting his comic book fall open on his knees.

Dramatic was not a side either of his grandfathers often saw in Hugo. Although, it wasn't terribly often that either got to see him all on his own and the center of attention (and it probably didn't hurt that they had hopped him up on sugar all morning). But it was obvious when he cracked his eyes open to see them both watching him fondly and grinned broadly that he was loving every minute of it.

"I'll bet there's something your galactic heroes haven't found on any of their fourteen planets yet," Arthur said suddenly, winking at Hugo and nodding toward the corner of the atrium. "Shall we see if we can finally eat up all those ghosts with that packer-man over there?"

"Pacman?" Hugo said, leaping to his feet, his woe over being earth-bound forgotten. "Comeoncomeoncomeon!"

And he was off at a run, leaving his two laughing grandfathers to follow in his wake.

**A/N: Hugo is quiet the nerd in my head. Dunno why, but he is. Destined to follow in his Granddad Weasley's Muggle fascination, if only for the comic books, gummy worms, and alien movies. :D I love him. Let me know what you think, though. **


	59. March 26

_Catechize__: to question closely_

**March 26, 1985**

A thunderous crashing rolled down the zigzagging stairs.

"MUM! I'M GOING NOW!"

"Take me with you," Charlie begged his older brother, appearing in the doorway to their bedroom. Behind him, the twins were jumping from bed to bed, shouting and throwing one of Charlie's dragon models back and forth.

Bill smirked. "No can do, mate. Get a girlfriend and I'll think about letting you tag along."

"Some brother you are!" Charlie called as Bill barreled down the last flight of stairs.

"Hey!" Percy complained as Bill whipped around the banister and sent him flying into the wall.

"Sorry, Perce."

"You smell like a pine tree threw up all over you," Percy told him as Bill pulled him roughly to his feet.

"It's called _showering_. Might want to try it some time."

"Actually, I think it's called _perfume_," Percy said with a slight snicker. When Percy started making fun of you, you knew it was time to get out of the house.

"_Cologne_," Bill muttered, ramming him back into the wall as he headed for the kitchen. "Mum, I'mgoingtothevillagenow. Seeyalater!"

He had almost made it to the door before –

"Wait a moment, dear. When are you getting back?"

"I dunno. Before supper?" Bill said impatiently, shifting from foot to foot with one hand on the door.

"And who are you going to be meeting again?"

"Just some friends." Bill told her.

His mother eyed him shrewdly, her gaze taking in his tucked-in shirt, pressed collar, and carefully-parted hair. "Mm-hm. And is Katherine Faucet one of them?"

"Bill's got a girlfriend! Bill's got a girlfriend!" came a high-pitched chant from the table, but the moment Bill whipped around, Ron and Ginny disappeared under their chairs in a flurry of mad giggles.

"She is _not _my girlfriend," he said, ears flaming. "But yeah, she'll be there," he added, turning back to his mother.

"And what are you all going to be doing?" she asked, suppressing a knowing smile.

"Are you gonna _kiss _her?" said Ginny, popping her braided head out from under the tablecloth.

"Only married people kiss, Ginny," Ron told her, superior in his five years of wisdom.

"Are you gonna marry her, Bill?" Ginny revised.

"He's not allowed to marry her until he's seventeen, is he, Mum?" Percy put in, scowling at Bill and rubbing his shoulder as he stood in the doorway.

"I'm not marrying anybody!" Bill exclaimed. "Look, I'm just going into the village with my friends."

He reached for the door.

"You be nice to her, Bill," his mother warned before the door slammed behind him.

As he crossed the yard, his father came out of the shed.

"Going into the village, son?" he asked cheerfully.

"I'm not going on a date with Katherine Faucet, okay! Merlin, what's with the third degree around here?"

**A/N: :O a whole week! I'm awful. Okay, but now's my catch-up time. Oh and by the way, Bill and Charlie are home for the Easter Holidays in this. Hope you liked it! ;D Review?**


	60. March 27

_Chelonian__: belonging or pertaining to the order _Chelonia, _comprising the turtles._

**March 27, 2013**

"Jamie," Hermione shot out a hand to catch her nephew as he tried to dart around her, chasing after his sister.

"Don't think you can outrun me, Lily!" he shouted, wiping at the lip gloss smears on his cheeks.

Hermione chose to overlook the obvious evidence of an oncoming fight in favor of a somewhat more pressing matter. "Do you know where your brother is?"

James shrugged. "He's not the one that tried to give me a makeover."

Hermione took out a handkerchief and began rubbing the residual blush streaks and glitter off James's face. "I haven't seen Al since lunch," she said, frowning.

James shrugged again, wriggling free. "I dunno. Maybe he's hiding. He does weird stuff like that."

"But what would he be hiding from?" Hermione asked in bafflement.

James held up his hands. "Like I said, Al's weird." Then he charged down the stairs, yelling: "Kiss your toad good-bye, Lily!"

There was a shriek. Hermione sighed.

"Just think what your mother will do if you touch that toad!" she shouted after him.

She loved her niece and nephews almost as much as her own children, but an afternoon watching them was never a quiet one. It was hard to tell if adding Rose and Hugo to the mix made things less chaotic or more, but at least when Rose was around she never lost Albus.

She had no idea where he'd gotten off to, and it was starting to make her panic a little bit. Not downstairs. Not in the attic. Not out in the yard. She pushed open his bedroom door for the third time as if somehow she'd missed him sitting placidly on his rug, building a block castle, but of course the room was empty.

Thinking about what James had said, Hermione opened the wardrobe door and checked behind hanging jumpers and piled socks. She got down on her knees and peered under the desk and then the bed, but all that was under there was a bunched-up green blanket.

"Olly-olly-oxenfree," she called, half-mocking herself as she tried not to imagine what Harry would do when he got home to find one less child than he'd left her with. Maybe two if James did anything to Lily's toad.

She had stood up and was just about to leave the room to check the hall closet when a muffled sneeze stopped her in her tracks. She looked back towards the bed, a sudden idea occurring to her. Kneeling beside the bed again, this time Hermione reached for the green blanket. There was a little squeak as her fingers found something warm.

"Al? Is that you?" she asked, thoroughly relieved.

"Um… no," said a deliberately high, squeaky voice. "It's Marvin the mouse. Al lets me live under his bed."

"Oh, really?" Hermione said, sitting back on her heals and trying not to let her smile into her voice. "Well, Marvin, I'm looking for Al. He's my nephew, you see, and I can't find him anywhere. I'm starting to get rather worried."

"If I see him, I'll tell him." This was followed by another muffled sneeze.

"My, it must be awfully dusty under there," Hermione commented. "You know, dust makes Al sneeze. Are you sure he's not hiding under there, too? I was really hoping he might help me make some cookies this afternoon, but if I can't find him, I won't be able to make any."

"Well, he might beh –" Marvin sneezed again. "– be under here. I'll check."

Hermione settled back against the wall and waited. A moment later a green blanket covered in dust wiggled out from under the bed. Hermione peeled back a part of the blanket and two green eyes stared back at her like a turtle peeking out from under its shell.

"There you are!" she said, smiling at her nephew. He sat up, rubbing his nose, and dust swirled around him. Of all the hiding places…. "What were you doing under there, Al? Didn't you hear me looking for you?"

Albus shrugged, sniffling. "It's cool under there. James can't find me."

Hermione shook her head and carefully pealed the dusty blanket from around his shoulders.

Albus glanced at the door and leaned forward to whisper, "I got Mummy's old makeup down for Lily."

Almost on cue there was a squeal from the living room and a bellow of "AL!"

Albus pulled the blanket back over his head and retreated once more into his dusty shell.

**A/N: Albus strikes me as the sort of kid who would be a bit like a timid turtle. But not so timid that he won't pull one over on his brother. Cute kid. And I've always thought Ron and Hermione would get quite the work out watching Harry and Ginny's kids. Anyway…. Review please! Pretty please! **


	61. March 28

_Luxate__: to put out of joint; dislocate._

**March 28, 1977**

"Owww!" James howled, doubling over and clutching his shoulder.

"Come on, Prongs! The longer you take getting to the hospital wing, the longer it's going to hurt!' Sirius said, showing his sympathy for his injured friend with a shove that sent James stumbling forward. Remus grabbed his good arm to stop him from face-planting onto the stone floor.

James sank to the ground, eyes closed and breathing shallow.

"It's too much…" he panted. "Go on… without me."

Remus rolled his eyes. "You're the reason we've got to go anywhere at all. Come on, James. It's just another two floors."

James whimpered.

"You're such a crybaby," Sirius said impatiently, yanking James to his feet. "Moony's looked twice as bad as you and we didn't hear him complaining."

"Well, bully for Moony," James said through clenched teeth.

"Why did you keep playing?" Peter asked, trotting alongside them and gapping at the odd angle James's left arm was making.

James mustered up enough strength to shoot Peter a half-incredulous half-insulted sidelong look.

"We were down ten points and I'm the best penalty shot. It's not worth a bludger to the shoulder unless we _win_."

"Infallible logic," Remus muttered, pushing aside a tapestry and leading the way into a secret passage that would take them up two floors.

By the top of the staircase, James's face glistened under a sheen of sweat. "This is the end," he muttered as his friends dragged him along. "I'm done for. At least I can die knowing it was for a good cause… make sure… Gryffindor wins the Quidditch cup… or I'll have to come back and haunt you."

"Don't even think of passing out, Sir Melodrama," Sirius warned. "Because there's no way I'm carrying your arse the rest of the way to Madam Ponfrey."

"Hey, Potter!"

A figure appeared at the end of the corridor. As she hurried toward them, her long red hair streamed like the Gryffindor banners on the Quidditch pitch. James, who'd been leaning heavily on Remus to stay standing, instantly jerked upright.

"Are you okay? It looked like Peterson nailed you pretty hard out there."

"Didn't know you cared, Evans," Sirius drawled, grabbing the collar of James's robes to keep him upright. Lily ignored him, looking at James's shoulder.

She winced. "That looks gross. It must hurt horribly."

"What, this?" James asked, glancing down at his shoulder. "Psh, it's just a scratch. I can hardly even feel it. You know, high pain threshold."

Sirius flicked James's left arm. He let out a high-pitched shriek of pain and tears sprang to his eyes.

"Easy, Evans. Wouldn't want you to feel faint from that show of masculinity." Sirius smirked.

**A/N: I figure Sirius is the only one who could do that and not get hexed into oblivion. Only close to it. :) Wow, I'm pumping these out today, aren't I? Thanks a ton to everyone who has reviewed! Hint, hint. :D**


	62. March 29

_Eudemonia__: happiness; well-being_

**March 29, 1981**

The house was perfect. She walked the big, spacious rooms, trailing her fingers lightly along the sideboards and trembling with delight. She would pick the perfect colors for each wall, hang ornate picture frames with images of their fairytale wedding day, their angelic little son. There would be a big television for the living room – just a hair bigger than Mrs. Number Seven's across the way. Vernon would park his luxury company car in the drive so everyone would know how important his job was. They would hold dinner parties and boast about Dudley to the neighbors and it would all be perfect.

"Do you like it, dear?" Vernon asked, coming into the hall.

She threw her arms around him. "It's wonderful!"

"Good. It cost a fair sum, but I thought it would make you happy."

That night Petunia stood in her new kitchen with Dudley dozing on her shoulder and Vernon clearing away the dinner plates for her. The shiny new appliances hummed, the TV in the living room came through so clear it hardly sounded like a TV at all.

She thought to herself that she could be the happiest she'd ever been in that moment. Too happy to keep it all to herself. And her hand was already on the phone before she remembered. Lily didn't have a phone. And Petunia never wanted to speak to her again. Silly how mindless impulses like that stuck around, coming out when you let your mind wander.

Petunia Dursley never realized that she really _could _have been the happiest she'd ever been in that moment. All she would have had to do was write a letter.

XxX

Miles and miles away, tucked in a little cottage with rooms so cramped the furniture all touched, Lily rocked her sleeping son, laughing as her husband and his friends downed butterbeers and recounted old school misadventures. She hummed under her breath. Nothing was as it ought to be. At barely twenty-one they had buried more of their friends than her parents had. They could barely leave their cramped little safe house. At only a few months old, their baby was already in more danger than they had ever been.

But here in the warm glow of their sitting room, with her baby and her husband and her friends, Lily was the happiest she'd ever been.

**A/N: Meh. It'll have to do. Hope you liked it! :) **


	63. March 30

_Fugitive__: fleeting, transitory, elusive_

**March 30, 2016**

Ginny set the stack of dishes down in the sink so hard the plates cracked. Swearing under her breath, she pulled out her wand to repair them, then turned on the faucet. The spray ricocheted off the dishes and soaked the front of her robes in a spray of scalding-hot water.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" she sputtered. Could _nothing _go right today?

"Mum?"

With a strong breath through her nose, Ginny turned to face the kitchen. Streamers dripped down the walls in damp, charred rivers of multicolored crepe paper. A yellow balloon – a lonely survivor – hung limply in the corner. And standing amid the destruction was – who else but her eldest son?

"Yes, James?" she asked tightly.

"Are we still going to London tomorrow?" he asked in an uncharacteristically small voice.

"Your father and I will talk about it."

She turned back to the dishes.

"Um… would it help if I said I was sorry?"

"It would help if you _were _sorry, James." Ginny threw her dish rag into the sink and whirled to face her son, who stepped back involuntarily. "For _once, _James, it would be wonderful to have a nice party. No gag gifts. No trick candles. No" – she picked up a blackened metal pan – "exploding cakes. It would be nice to go more than a few days without Lily finding all her shoes tied together or Al getting a garden snake in his bed. I would like to see you out of your room when I'm not _yelling _at you for something, and I would _love _to take you to London tomorrow and not worry about what you're going to hide in your coat pocket. But we can't always get what we want, can we?"

James shrank back against the table, eyes wide. Upstairs, the sounds of Harry getting the other two to bed had stilled, and Ginny realized that she'd been shouting.

"So… is that a no?" James finally asked, barely above a whisper.

"Just because it was your birthday today doesn't mean you can get away with everything under the sun!" Ginny exclaimed. "And just because you're eleven now and going away to school in a few months doesn't mean you're all grown up, either. Especially if you keep acting like this. James, sometimes I just don't know what we're going to do with you."

As Ginny turned back to the dishes so she didn't have to see the look on her son's face, she thought of the little toddler who had brought her bouquets of dandelions, who had _wanted _his mother's hugs every day before he got on the bus that took him to the Muggle primary school in the village. It seemed like that sweet little boy had disappeared altogether, and she missed him terribly.

She didn't want his birthday to go this way, but she couldn't wave aside misbehavior like this. James was lucky none of them had gotten hurt. She'd seen flying sparks glance off Al's glasses and Harry had had to stamp out the hem of Lily's dress. It was downright dangerous.

Something nudged Ginny's side. She looked around to see James trying to get at the trash can under the sink. His arms were full of soaked streamers. She stepped out of the way so he could dump them in the bin. Then he straightened and looked up at her. His lip trembled just the slightest bit.

And suddenly she could see the sweet little boy again, a fleeting glimpse of him coming through.

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, putting her arms around him.

Instead of pulling away, proclaiming she was _smothering _him, James buried his head in her shoulder. "I really _am _sorry," he snuffled.

His mother ran her hand through his hair and kissed the top of his head. "I hope so."

He squeezed her tightly around the middle and then fled up the stairs to hid bedroom, and her little boy was gone again.

**A/N: Oh, just a touch sad. But children get older…. I think once he hits about seventeen, Ginny might find a little more of his sweetness again. But that's a long six years…. And James isn't such a terror, after all. He just likes to make his parents think he is most of the time. **


	64. March 31

_Boon__: something to be thankful for; blessing; benefit_

**March 31, 1998**

The trapdoor cracked open with a squeal of unused hinges, and yellow light skittered across the floor. The trapdoor thudded shut, then a second later was flung open with a loud thud that sent eddies of dust swirling in the dim starlight that slanted in through the window. Jenna Thomas hauled herself up the steep ladder and reached up a hand, scrabbling at the wall until she found the light switch and flicked it on.

There was a flicker as a few bare light bulbs sparked to life as though rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and then the somewhat-awry scene of a teenage boy's room that had been hastily straightened became visible.

Jenna straightened up, turning in a circle as though the walls were lined with priceless treasures rather than a few peeling posters and some crinkled sketches. A heavy oak trunk sat thick with dust at the end of the bed. A decade-old computer that had hardly been touched was shoved in the corner, its cord coiled on top of it.

Jenna collapsed on the bed and stared up at the rafters. She knew exactly what was missing from this room by just a glance. An old red rucksack from primary schooldays long-since past. All four sets of 'normal' clothes that fit in the top drawer of the small dresser. The bubblegum bank Jenna's dad had picked up at a specialty shop on one of his business trips and helped to fill with change. And the most important thing? Her brother.

Dean didn't spend a lot of time in this room, anyway. He wouldn't have been home now no matter what. Gone off to school or to Seamus's. But somehow, it had felt much, much emptier knowing only the places Dean wasn't.

There was a creak and Jenna sat up to see a pair of dark eyes peering at her from the trapdoor. Her little sister, Lindsey, crawled into the room and joined Jenna on the bed, staring at the sketches pinned to the wall. She reached up to touch an empty patch of plaster, thinking of the drawing that had been taken from there: two girls walking along a street in school uniforms, laughing, wild, dark hair streaming down their backs. Them, as their brother captured them.

Lindsey turned to her sister and was shocked to see tears gathering in her eyes. She reached out a small hand.

"But he's okay, Jen," she said softly. "Remember? He's okay."

Jenna nodded and dug in her pocket. A second later she produced a small, strange gold coin. "For now," she said, swallowing hard.

She cradled the coin in both her hands, the most valuable gift anybody had ever given to her and her family. Not the gold. The miniscule words that looked stamped in the metal, permanent, but which Jenna knew could change in an instant. Their last message read:_ D & L at safe house._

They might have traded their entire house for the blessing of that coin. But the worst day of Jenna's life by far would come in little over a month when the message stamped in gold was: _We're fighting_.

**A/N: Some more about Dean Thomas's story. I quite like it, actually. And his sisters. I imagine them as 14 and 12 in this if anybody cares. It's not really relevant. Anyway. Reviews are lovely. A shout out to everyone who's dropped me a line. They're the most wonderful people on the planet! :) **


	65. April 1

_Pyknic__: having a round build or body structure._

**April 1, 1999**

The first of April dawned bright and clear, one of the first really fine spring days. Birds sang in the trees all along the winding paths of Canary Park. Bicycles sped past in a flurry of streaming ribbons. Familes gathered under trees whose buds were just starting to pop with blankets and picnic baskets in hand. And on the benches lining the path sat a few solitary people: an old woman happily throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons, a teenage boy dressed like he'd just stepped out of the fifties reading an intimidatingly thick Russian novel, and a young man dressed in an odd assortment of baggy athletic shorts, polished dress shoes, a reptilian-looking jacket, and a knitted cap pulled low over his head.

It was the young man in the strange ensemble that caught the park officer's eye – not because he suspected the kid of anything, no one came to Canary park in the middle of the afternoon to cause trouble. But endless cycling of the twisting paths with the most exciting thing being warning some highly suspicious picnickers not to litter made him very interested in the colorful youth.

So the rather squat security guard decided to take an extra break, bought a donut at the vendor he'd been eyeing across the street all morning, and plunked himself down on the bench beside the kid. He was wondering how best to broach conversation, savoring the heavenly pastry, when the young man turned to him with a wide grin and stuck out a hand.

"Hey, mate," he said cheerfully. "Name's Ebenezer Lump. Herd tell of your fine establishment in the BWB monthly. Came all the way from Wales to have a peek"

"Erm, really?" the security guard said, taken aback. "What's the BWB?"

The young man looked comically offended. "Top of the list and he doesn't even know what the BWB is? Honestly. Why it's the Bird-Watchers of Britain! We're only the most well-campaigned natural avian devotees group in Little Grazing. At least tell me you know what we've sighted in your excellent park."

The plump security guard shook his head cautiously, licking the powdered sugar off his doughy fingers.

The young man heaved a dramatic sigh and smacked his forehead with his palm.

"_The purple-chirping magpie?_ Ringing any bells?"

"Um, was it on the news?" the guard asked, conjuring up a half-listened-to story on the radio this morning that he was almost sure had dropped the name.

"I should think so," the young man said incredulously. "It's one of the rarest spottings on our register. Want to see what it cost to get our last picture of the thing?"

The youth leaned in and pulled up the side of his knitted cap. The security guard recoiled in horror, staring at the gaping black chasm where an ear must once have been.

"That, er, wow! Must have hurt! Sorry to dash, but I'm needed at water fountain C across the way!"

And the round little security guard waddled off as quickly as he could, glancing over his shoulder at the waving, bird-avid young man.

A little bit after the security guard disappeared, a harried-looking mother pushing a baby stroller and clutching an armload of shopping and diaper bags stumbled to the bench beside Ebenezer Lump. He flashed her broad grin, scooping up some of her fallen shopping.

"Thank you, sir," the woman said gratefully.

"Not at all, not at all. Name's Albert Rutlinger. Just got off a year-long voyage around the world…"

It was one of the best April Fool's jokes he'd ever played. But all he could think about as he spun the wild tales of a hundred other people was how much he didn't want to be George Weasley today.

**A/N: This prompt didn't lend itself greatly to my goal but I was bound and determined that today could feature no one but a Weasely twin. It was a bit sad at the end there, wasn't it? Oh. Well, I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. **


	66. April 2

_Grouse__: to grumble; complain _

**April 2, 1968**

"Cissy, come _on,_" Andromeda hissed, seizing her little sister's wrist and yanking hard.

Narcissa let out a loud yowl of protest.

"Let go of me! I'll tell Mummy!"

Andromeda rolled her eyes, but dropped Narcissa's arm. Her sister could spin any story into her being the victim and Andromeda the devil. At seven it had garnered her a grudging respect from her sisters, but at thirteen even Bellatrix found it whiny and tiresome.

"Then quit making faces and _move_," Andromeda snapped, hurrying along the crossed London street.

"I don't see why we're spending out Holidays tramping around these disgusting alleys," Narcissa sniffed, digging a lacy handkerchief out of her pocket and pressing it over her nose.

"_You're_ the one who's been complaining about not having enough potions ingredients. What about thanking your wonderful big sister for taking you shopping rather than sipping Aunt Walberga's nasty tea – Sirius, so help me, if you touch that mangy dog, I'll jinx your fingers off!"

Sirius withdrew his hand and scampered back to Andromeda's side with a sullen look on his face. Regulus, swinging off Andromeda's hand, snickered and Sirius aimed a kick at his brother.

"But why couldn't we have used the Floo?" Narcissa whined behind them, stepping gingerly over a dirty puddle on the pavement. "Like normal people?" `

"Because Sirius and Regulus smashed the vase with all the powder in the fire this morning.

"Uncle Orion could have apparated to get more this evening."

"It's only a couple kilometers from Grimauld Place. It won't kill you to walk."

"If I catch some atrocious Muggle disease, it will be all your fault."

"Duly noted," Andromeda muttered dryly, grabbing the back of Sirius's collar as he swung around a lamppost.

"My feet hurt, Andromeda. I'll have _bunions_ thanks to you. Do you know how _common_ that is? And the street smells like petroleum."

Andromeda gritted her teeth. This was the last time she tried to do something nice for her sister.

**A/N: Short, rather pointless, and doesn't put Narcissa in a terribly flattering light, does it? Sorry 'bout that. I don't actually hate her or anything. I just find some sort of strange pleasure in writing her and Andromeda as teenagers and Narcissa always comes off as, well, whiny and narcissistic in my head. Go figure. :/**


	67. April 3

_Zeitgeber__: an environmental cue, as the length of daylight, that helps to regulate they cycles of an organism's biological clock._

**April 3, 1998**

"Maybe they went on holiday."

"Don't be daft. They wouldn't make it a mile down the road the way Ginny says they're being watched."

Parvati swung her legs down off the windowsill and dropped her chin into her palm glumly. "I'm just trying to be optimistic."

"Yeah, well, we're not dumb enough to be optimistic anymore," Seamus muttered, scowling at his transfiguration book.

"Why not?" Lavender piped up, perching on the edge of Seamus's trunk. "Luna's been missing for three months and we just found out she's fine! Dean, too. Why can't we think on the bright side for a change?"

Seamus shut his book with a snap. "First off because we don't _know _they're fine. We know they're _alive_. And that's it. And now Ginny's gone. What d'you suppose that means about that lot?" He waved a hand at the two dusty four-poster beds across the room. Harry and Ron's old beds.

"Don't talk like that, Seamus," Lavender said shrilly.

"Well? We all know Ron's not stuffed away in some attic gravely ill. If Ginny's disappeared, it's because they finally got caught."

"We don't know she's disappeared," Neville said quietly from the end of his bed, and they all turned to look at him.

Seamus snorted. "We've been back for four days. If she isn't back by now, she isn't coming back. And you know what? Neither are those three." He jerked his head at Harry and Ron's beds again.

"Of course they are," Parvati countered, smiling as though Seamus were simply a bit confused.

But Lavender rounded on him angrily. "Why do you keep saying things like that? They're our friends and of course they're coming back!"

"Since when has Hermione Granger been your friend?' asked Seamus, eyebrows raised.

Lavender looked a little hurt. "So we haven't always gotten along. That doesn't mean I want to think she's dead!"

"I'm not saying they're dead," Seamus shot back. For the first time his expression looked pained. "I hope to Merlin they're not, and not just because it would mean the rest of us are well and screwed. But you all keep saying things like 'when Luna's back… when Ginny's back… when _Harry's_ back.' Well, what makes you think they're coming back? It's practically suicide for them to show their faces here! Face it, there's no savior coming for us. We're on our own in this mess."

"No, we're not,"

They all looked around at Neville once more. He sat forward, eyes glinting with a steely-hard certainty.

"Look, I don't like to say it, but it's the truth, mate," Seamus persisted.

"They'll be back," Neville said. Then he nodded to reinforce the assuredness of his words. "We're getting close to the fight, and they're always at the center of the fight."

"What are you talking about?" Lavender asked, squinting at him in confusion.

Neville sat back and looked at them all in turn. Then he looked out the window at the fading evening. "It's getting close to the end of the year. Can you think of a year when Harry wasn't in the middle of some big showdown here?"

The other three exchanged looks.

"Third year," Seamus suggested after a minute of silence.

But Neville shook his head. "All three of them ended up in the hospital wing and the next day Snape ratted Lupin out and Lupin resigned. Something happened. No matter how hard he tries, Harry can't stay out of whatever's going on here. I'm telling you, they'll be back before the end of the year."

Parvati and Lavender exchanged a glance in which Neville thought he caught agreement, but Seamus just shook his head and went back to his Transfiguration.

"Whatever you need to believe. But it's probably safer for them if they just stay away."

"The warmer it gets, the closer things get to coming to a head," Neville insisted. "It's just the way it is with Harry. You can practically time it."

**A/N: I'm just not on top of things lately, am I? No excuse you really want to hear. Meh, not so pleased with this one, but it took me ages to get an idea, so there it is. Hope you liked it anyway! :) **


	68. April 4

_Sylph__: a slender, graceful woman or girl._

**April 4, 1996**

She stood before the floor-length mirror and examined the reflection. It was not new behavior. Ever since she was a small girl she had gloried in watching herself in mirrors and windows, spinning in the satiny dresses her mother put her in, smiling beatifically at her own sapphire eyes. She had carefully watched the way she moved, perfected an effortless glide.

Fleur Delacour had always known she was beautiful. And before now, she had always thought that was all she needed to be. Of course, she wasn't about to be 'ditzy' as that Rita woman had once called her. But it was never hard to charm whoever she was after. And before now, that had always been more than enough.

There was a knock on the door behind her. With a graceful swirl of silky robes, she flew to the door and pulled it open, beaming already.

"Hey, love," he said, stooping to kiss her as he slid into the apartment.

Even now she had what she wanted: the heart of a handsome, red-haired treasure-hunter. But it had slowly dawned on her that she wanted something else, something she had never wanted so badly in her life. She wanted to keep it. And she wanted him to take her heart in return.

Bill sank down at the table, a spindly little thing that looked strange with his lanky frame tucked under it. He rubbed his temples, grimacing.

"Long day?" she asked, coming over and putting her hands on his shoulders.

"More like long night," Bill muttered into his fingers.

She hesitated. "Eez eet ze Order again?"

Bill nodded. "After what happened to Dad at Christmas… well, things have been tougher. Let's just say that. Doesn't help that Mum seems to think Ron and Harry and that lot are going to end up mixed up in everything. It's practically an extra job just keeping her calm." He sighed deeply. "And it hasn't even started getting bad yet."

He hooked an arm around her slim waist and gently pulled her into his lap. Her silvery hair fell over his shoulder and their eyes met, deep sapphire on baby blue. He pushed a smooth lock out of her face.

"Have I ever told you your beautiful?" he murmured.

It would have been easy to melt right there. It was what she might have done a year ago, let all the bad things fade into the background of other people's lives, let his half-explanations cover it all. But things had changed.

She slid out of his arms and perched on the chair beside him.

"What's wrong?"

He leaned forward, concerned, running a hand along her cheek.

"A lot of zings," she told him, sitting up straighter. "Zat's why I 'ave decided somezing."

"What's that?" he asked warily.

"I want to join ze Order."

He looked more than taken aback. "You mean you want to fight? Don't get me wrong, I'd be terrified to be on the other end of duel with you, but… I mean, it's not even your fight. Your family, your friends… you could go back to France and be perfectly safe."

He clamped his mouth shut under the look she gave him.

"I am not fighting for my safety. Cedric Diggory waz a good person and a friend to me. 'Arry, too. I will fight for the same reasons you do."

Sitting tall and proud, she held his gaze until he was the one to look away. And there was an impressed smile on his lips when he did.

If she wanted him to take her heart, she had better make it one worth taking.

**A/N: I really do like Fleur. And Bill, too. And their romance. Quite a bit. :) I imagine this was indeed the deciding factor that pushed Bill to proposal just a couple months later. Before this moment I imagine both were enjoying their relationship, but saw it as, well, not a fling exactly, but not something that would last. Then they realized they didn't want it to end, saw what each other was made of, and here we are. Alright, enough of my ramblings. I want to hear YOU ramble for a change. **


	69. April 5

_Ephebe__: a young man._

**April 5, 1999**

He appeared on the sidewalk like a ghost, so suddenly she dropped the teacup she'd been holding. It had to be him, she knew it at once. No one else had that messy hair… those bright green eyes. It had been nearly a year since it had all ended, nearly two since last she'd seen him. And for a moment she thought it might just be a ghost, for what other reason would he have for walking up this street than to haunt her?

As the boy reached her driveway, a strange and unwelcome panic began in her stomach. She suddenly remembered the last moments they had spent in each other's presence, all those things she could have said but hadn't – _again_.

At the walk, he paused, turned to look at the house, and she reflexively pulled the curtain in front of her, hoping he hadn't seen. Hoping the boy who had already infringed on her happiness for seventeen years would go and finally leave her in peace.

She peeked out form around the fabric – and to her astonishment, he was gone. She pushed herself up against the glass, staring up and down the street, half-convinced that he was indeed an apparition. She had always known the boy would find himself a sticky end mixed up in that lot. But then she caught sight of him heading round the corner at the other end of the street, as if he were heading to old Mrs. Figg's house. Strange.

Feeling oddly faint, she sank down onto the edge of the sofa and stared at the empty street outside her window. In her mind's eye, a scruffy boy chased after a bus, a petulant teenager eavesdropped in the garden… and now a young man barely spared a glance.

A young man…. Perhaps that was the most unsettling of all. Somehow, when she'd been busy being angry and bitter and resentful, the boy had turned into a young man. And that possibility that had been bobbing in the back of her head since the first time she'd seen those green eyes shattered. There was no more time left to make it right.

**A/N: This moment only lasted as long as a soap bubble, just so you know. I mean, Petunia Dursley caries with her a lot of lasting regrets that she hides from the world, but she is the queen at pushing down all that guilt and remorse. It will take something a little bigger than simply an unexpected glance at her nephew to drive home what she messed up. If you're interested, that something bigger is chapter… seven I believe in my story called 'Snapshots'. But I like this little soap-bubble moment, too. And Harry was going to visit Mrs. Figg, you know, thank her and offer her some social contact. A bit late, but I figure it took him awhile to pull himself together, and who says this is his first or only visit anyway? Right then, off to reviewing… **


	70. April 6

_Agley__: off the right line; awry; wrong._

**April 6, 1975**

A growling roar split the calm night, shredding right up to the star-strewn, indigo sky. A fifteen-year-old boy leapt up from the porch swing of a tumbledown old farmhouse. He vaulted over the rickety rail and landed barefoot in the garden, already running for the road.

A light swept around the bend, and Remus Lupin jumped back as the motorcycle howled to a halt in front of him with a spray of gravel. Remus groaned as the rider pulled off his helmet, flashing him a wild grin.

"Sirius…" was all he could get out, waving helplessly at the flame-painted motorbike.

"Like my new ride, Moony?" Sirius asked, swinging off the bike and patting the gas tank fondly.

"Where… how…?" Remus gaped at the bike and its rider. "Please tell me a kind, drunken stranger let you borrow that."

"It was just _sitting _there on the curb down in town," Sirius explained. "And I thought 'how else am I going to make it all the way to Salazar's pub and back in one night?' Perfect, eh?"

"Salazar's pub?" Remus repeated faintly.

Sirius gave him another reckless grin as he pulled open his leather jacket to reveal several flasks sloshing with who knew what kind of alcohol. He clapped Remus on the shoulder. "You can marvel at my brilliance inside. Come on."

But as he made for the house, Remus shook himself back to reality and shot out a hand to grab his arm.

"Hang on, you can't just leave a stolen motorbike sitting outside my house!"

"Right, of course not!" Sirius agreed, smacking a palm into his forehead. "Good catch, Moony. We'll put it in the trees over there."

"No, I mean you've got to take it back!" Remus told him hastily as Sirius made to start wheeling the bike away.

Sirius stopped and turned to blink at him. "Why?"

"Because… because it's wrong, Sirius! You _stole _something, drove a bike all the way to Salazar's without a _license_, got Firewhiskey _underage_," Remus stopped talking, but his mouth was still opening and closing furiously. "Merlin, my parents are going to _kill _me! What the hell, Sirius?"

"Easy, Remus. You didn't do anything. I'll tell them that _if _they ever find out. I'll take the bike back tomorrow night, okay? Sheesh. Shoulda known better than to live a little under your watch."

Sirius turned and began stomping up towards the house. Remus ran a hand through his hair. One week. He'd thought Sirius could keep himself in check for just one week out here in the middle of nowhere for the Easter Holidays.

He let out a breath and dropped his hands to his sides, looking skyward. "Can you at least tell me _why_?"

Sirius turned and gave him another one of those mad grins. "My mother already thinks I'm Hell on wheels. The least I can do is prove her right."

**A/N: Poor Remus. I don't know how he deals with Sirius **_**and **_**James together all the time. But I do love them. I imagine James went on holiday for the Easter break and Remus decided to go home, so Sirius begged to stay with him. I wonder if Remus is regretting letting him after tonight. :) **


	71. April 7

_Pleach__: to interweave branches or vines for a hedge or arbor._

**April 7, 2001**

Audrey swept her long dark hair out of her face, planted a hand on her hip, and examined the white, latticed arch before her with a critical eye. Nine days from now she would be married beneath it.

"I think roses would look nice. What do you think?"

Audrey turned as her mother-in-law-to-be stepped off the small back porch and came to join her beside the trellis.

"Roses would be lovely," Audrey agreed, imagining the thorny vines crawling up the lattice, dripping with red blooms. "Percy would like that."

Molly nodded. "Percy always liked proper things like that," she said fondly. "He was the only little boy I knew who insisted on parting his hair every day."

Audrey smiled, thinking of her fiancé as a little boy. "Roses it is, then."

She raised her wand waved over the base of the arch. Vines sprouted from the earth and began winding their way up the sides. Molly moved to do the same on the other side.

"You know, I don't know that I ever thanked you," she said after a moment, glancing up at Audrey.

"For what?" Audrey asked, surprised.

"For bringing our son back to us," she said quietly. "I imagine you had at least a little something to do with it."

"Oh," Audrey murmured. It was all she could really think to say. Everything was so much different than it had been three years ago, and none of them liked to dwell on that time much. "Well, he helped me out quite a bit, you know. I – it just – he would have come back anyway."

Molly nodded and sniffed, and Audrey was dismayed to see a few tears leaking out of her eyes. "Yes, he would have. But maybe not until it was too late." She mopped her face with her sleeve and smiled at Audrey. "I'm sorry, dear. It's just, I think if he had come back after the battle, just a few hours later than he did…. He and the twins used to fight so much…. It would all have been different if it had taken him longer. So, whatever you said to him – and he's told me you said something – I'm grateful for. We all are."

Audrey felt her cheeks burn. Compared to what everybody else in this family had done, helping Percy humble himself to them seemed barely worth a mention.

"It – I was happy to do it," she told Molly, reaching out to pat her shoulder. "But, really, there's no need to thank me. I mean, I suppose it's like the roses," she went on, pointing to the vines weaving their way through each other toward the top of the arch. "One vine uses another to get closer to the sun, then that one climbs over another one, which pretty soon is climbing over the first. Every helping hand is repaid in kind. I'm sure I'll need your help one day."

Molly smiled and patted Audrey's hand on her shoulder. "And you'll be more than welcome to it, dear. We're glad to have you as part of the family."

At the top of the arch, the two sets of climbing vines met, interweaving with one another, too.

**A/N: R&R, yes? All the cool kids are doing it! :) **


	72. April 8

_Apotropaic__: intended to ward off evil._

**April 8, 1975**

The vigil started at sundown. As she washed the dishes and straightened up the kitchen, cleaned the boys up and settled them in the sitting room with Arthur, she kept watch out the windows. Shadows crept over the yard, filling flowerbeds and hilly corners with threatening darkness. Arthur stoked the fire, even though it was growing warm again, and she gathered her two small sons in her arms to distract them with a story about old Babity Rabity or a hopping pot so they wouldn't notice their father putting up shield charms and protective enchantments.

Once the boys were safely tucked in their beds, once she had checked in the wardrobe for monsters and made sure the window was securely latched, she walked the house. She began at the kitchen door and moved on to each window, listening to the solid _click_ of magical locks charmed let loose a deafening wail should anyone try to open them. And once she'd made it to ever window, she did another lap just to be sure.

Arthur had long gone to bed by the time she blew out the last candle and climbed the stairs. She cracked open the door to the boys' room to assure herself that they were soundly sleeping, checked the dream catchers Mrs. Lovegood had made more for Molly's peace of mind than the boys, laced with billywig wings and other good luck charms.

And then she crawled into her own bed to wish on evening stars that the night would pass quickly.

**A/N: Molly's somewhat paranoid behavior in this was sparked by the first mass attack on the public in which thirteen people were killed, including the two small children she nannied for right out of Hogwarts. At least in my timeline. Also, she and Arthur had a miscarriage two years before, which didn't help. I think this lends itself to the fear she has in Order of the Pheonix, but then again, what mother wouldn't fear for her children? Anyway, short, but hopefully still worth the read. **


	73. April 9

_Cumshaw__: a present; gratuity; tip._

**April 9, 2000**

On the eve of his twentieth birthday, Justin Finch-Fletchly wound up slumped at the bar in the Leakey Cauldron, basking in the comfort of an old friend and a glass of Firewhiskey on the house. The only other pub goers for the Sunday evening were a withered old witch content to puff on a huge pipe in the back corner, and a scruffy man who kept bent over a piece of parchment muttering to himself. Besides them, he and Hannah were the only ones in the room.

She leaned over the bar, watching him nurse his glass with sympathy-filled eyes. Her honey-blond hair was wound up in a long, elegant braid and her cheeks were rosy from work. She fiddled with a hole in the sleeve of her robes, nodding sadly as he finished his story.

"S'pose I shoulda seen it coming," he muttered, taking a swig of his drink. "I mean, I was practically gone for eight years. 'S'not like we were_ betrothed _or anything."

"Oh, Justin," Hannah sighed, reaching across the bar to squeeze his fingers. "It's a rubbish way to find out, though, reading about it in the paper. The least she could have done was tell you herself."

Justin shrugged and stared morosely into the dregs of his glass. That afternoon he had seen in black and white font in the back pages of the city gazette that Ellie Washington was engaged to be married. Ellie Washingtong, his childhood best friend, his first kiss the summer he was fourteen, and the girl whose picture had kept a fierce desire to make it home burning in him as he'd skipped from safe house to safe house during the last year of the war. She was engaged, and he'd had to read about it among adds for kittens and yard sale announcements.

Hannah poured another splash of whiskey for him and he downed the burning liquid, relishing its scorching effect. He set down the glass with a clink and their eyes met.

"I feel like it's been ages since we've talked like this," he said, and he knew from her expression that he wasn't the only one remembering a few quiet moments stole behind the greenhouses more than three years before.

Everyone had always assumed Ernie and Hannah were meant to be when they were in school. It was common knowledge (at least among the Hufflepuff common room) that Ernie had decked Wayne Hopkins once for trying to make a move on Hannah. But there had never been any romance between them. Ernie only ever had eyes for Susan Bones and was far too much like a brother to Hannah for her to even consider the notion of kissing him without simultaneously bursting into giggles and wanting to gag. But Justin was a different story….

Hannah looked away, looping a finger through the hole in her sleeve and examining the fraying threads. Justin shook himself.

"Can't you mend it?" he asked, nodding at the hole.

Hannah shook her head ruefully. "I already have too many times. These are my only dress robes, too. I'd buy new ones, but a bar maid's salary is almost all tips."

"That's hardly fair," Justin told her, reaching into the swollen money bag at his waist. "Listen, Hannah, what would you say to –"

But at that moment, the fireplace in the corner erupted in a swirl of green flames. Justin didn't miss the way Hannah beamed when Neville Longbottom tumbled out onto the hearthrug. Nor did he miss the flower Neville proffered to her as she hurried out to help him back to his feet.

"I clipped it from the greenhouse today," he said, blushing. "Are you ready to go?"

"Nearly," she told him. She bit her lip and glanced over at Justin, who shrugged, giving her a rueful smile. "I've just got to clean up a bit, clear out the room…."

"I'll give you a hand," Neville offered brightly. "I'll take care of the dishes while I'm putting that in some water." He gently took the rose back from her, waving at Justin as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"When'd you two get together?" Justin asked, raising an eyebrow at Hannah.

She turned bright pink. "We're hardly 'together'," she said, swatting his arm with her rag as he smirked. "We're good friends."

"He brought you a flower."

"Yellow roses symbolize friendship."

Justin shook his head, grinning down at her. "Any bloke who brings you a rose doesn't just want to be your friend."

Hannah didn't seem to have a response to that, so she went to chivy the pipe-smoking witch and the mumbling warlock out the door. Justin watched her wipe down the tables with a far-off expression.

Then the kitchen doors burst open again and Neville came back round the bar. "All finished up in there," he announced.

"Me too," said Hannah somewhat breathlessly, straightening up and fumbling with the strings of her apron.

Neville stepped forward to help. "You look nice," he told her.

Hannah ducked her head, smiling broadly. "You too."

Justin saw her tug at the sleeve of her robes, covering up the splitting seem.

"I can close up if you want, Hannah," he said, sliding off the stool. "What? You can trust me!" he protested when she gave him a skeptical look.

"Well, if you promise," she laughed, pulling her key out and pressing it into his palm. "I really am sorry," she added earnestly, looking into his face. She slipped an arm around his waist in a fleeting hug before she and Neville strolled out, hand in hand.

Alone in the bar, Justin went behind the counter and found the glass jar Hannah kept her tips in. Very serenely, he undid the chord of his money bag and tipped it upside-down over the mouth of the jar. A cascade of silver and gold coins shshed into the half-full container of mostly bronze. Then he put it back where he found it and went on locking up.

**A/N: A bit on the longer side, isn't it? Don't know where this came from, but I do like those Hufflepuffs. :) Anyway, I read a fascinating essay on the HP lexicon analyzing the names of the 'original 40' from Harry's year, and based on some pretty accurate (and cool, I, the sociology nerd, think) human geographic stuff, it seems pretty likely that Justin, while a Muggle-born, so basically still an underclass citizen in the wizarding world, was loaded. His family is supposed to be as rich as the Malfoys, only no one at Hogwarts really knows it. So I dunno if that interests you or colors this chapter different, but I thought I'd share it as it seemed important to me. **

**Also, I've had a story (kind of a sad one) planned out for Justin for quite some time, and here is the first real snippet of it to hit the light, so I'm rather fond of this chapter. Don't worry, there's no impending love triangle between Neville, Hannah, and Justin. Just some old caring that probably never goes away entirely. Don't worry, Justin was never in love with Hannah. **

**But anyway… **


	74. April 10

_Caparison__: to dress richly; deck._

**April 10, 2022**

Dominique Weasely gaped at the girl standing before her. Shimmery, satin robes in soft spring green swished around her ankles. Gold bracelets clanked at her wrists, a sparkling necklace hung at her throat, her hair was twined up on the top of her head and pinned in place with a jeweled clip. This girl looked fresh from some rich soiree, about to wrinkle her nose and clutch her purse as she scuttled down the street.

Dominique had to work hard to hide her disgust as she turned away from the mirror.

"Erm, Vic?" she said tentatively, peering at her sister across the stuffy, taffeta-filled back room.

"What?" Victoire said distractedly. She was rifling through the big red bag she'd taken to carrying with her, crammed with binders and files of center pieces and flower arrangements, church descriptions and fabric samples.

As Dominique tried to figure out a tactful way to break it to her already-nerve-stretched sister that there was no way in hell she was wearing this posh ensemble out in public, a dressing room door slammed down the hall.

"Now what?" Victoire exclaimed, looking up from her frantic leafing and seeming dangerously close to tears.

Without so much as a warning, the door flew open and Louis burst in, carrying a heap of shimmery buttercup yellow material in one arm.

"Knock much?" Dominique asked, tossing one of her discarded flip-flops at her brother. "We might have been changing, you prat."

Louis paused long enough to roll his eyes. "Gran used to put us in baths together."

Dominique chucked her other flip-flop. Louis batted it aside and tossed down the heap of yellow robes, already turning his attention to his other sister.

"No way," he said, crossing his arms.

"What's wrong with them?" Victoire demanded, voice cracking shrilly.

"They're _yellow _for a start!" Louis exclaimed.

"Yellow's neutral!" Victoire told him indignantly, snatching the robes up and shaking them out.

Dominique saw that the cuffs and hem were edged in gold.

"Maybe for girls, but you'll have to stun me and tie me up before you can get me into that thing," Louis declared. "Why do I have to dress up, anyway? I'm not a bloody bride's maid!"

Victoire turned to Dominique with a desperate expression. Louis gave her a 'what-the-hell-are_-you_-wearing?' sort of look over Victoire's shoulder. Dominique sighed and yanked the jeweled pin out of her hair, letting it tumble down in its usual messy swirl of red.

"What Lou is _trying _to say," she said, casting her brother an annoyed look, "is don't you think this is a little much? I mean, all this satin and gold is making us look dangerously like Teddy's great aunt."

"Who will be at our wedding!" Victoire burst out, burying her face in her hands.

With a rising sense of alarm, Dominique and Louis saw tears trickling out from between her fingers. They looked at each other, having a silent, furious argument that Dominique somehow lost. Cursing herself for not insisting their mother come with them ('it's just a fitting, Mum. Honestly, you'll just drag it out!'), she kicked off the precariously high heels Victoire wanted to dress her in and walked over to her sister.

"Vic? Do you not want Mrs. Malfoy at your wedding? Because I can tell her she's not invited. Fred and I'll bring our bats, just in case," Dominique offered, rubbing Victoire's shoulder comfortingly.

"No," Victoire sniffled, pulling her face out of her hands in alarm. "No, don't do that. She'd probably take offense and then Andromeda would be back where she was eight years ago."

"Well if we can't kick the stuck-up old –" Dominique said a word that made her brother snicker and her sister say, "Dom!" "– out, then I don't know how to help you because we're _not _wearing this walking bank account. And you can bet Fred and James'll boycott your wedding if you even show this to them. Come on, Vic, since when do you care about this sort of thing?"

"It doesn't matter if _I _don't care!" Victoire cried, flinging her hands up. "_They _care! Mum gave up her big white French wedding because of the war. Teddy's parents practically eloped. Mum and Grandmere and Teddy's Gran, _they _want at least one perfect wedding. And don't they deserve it?"

She looked up at her brother and sister through streaming eyes. Dominique and Louis exchanged another look.

"No," Louis snorted. "You're the one getting married. If you don't mind us running round in flour sacks, why should they care?"

"Because they just _do_," Victoire wailed, burying her face in her hands once more so that her voice came out muffled. "And the greenhouse says they haven't got the flowers we picked out, and no one's booked a band, and I just want to be married to Teddy and I don't care how it happens!"

"Okay," Dominique said in her best soothing voice. Soothing was not her area of expertise. Victoire was usually the one who always knew how to put everyone back together. "Okay, you've still got four months. Louis'll find a band for you, I'd bet Neville could get you any flowers under the sun and several under water, and as for me, I'll have a chat with Mum and Grandmere about _your _wedding and how _you _want it, alright? So can we please stop dressing up as some snobby, high-society family now?"

Victoire gave a watery chuckle, tugging the lacy collar of Dominique's robes up around her neck like a frill. "So long as you promise never to act like one."

"No way in hell," Louis and Dominique vowed at the same time.

**A/N: Inspiration goes to alohamora080, who suggested some more obscure next gen stuff. :) I liked this idea better than the original one I had and I hope you enjoyed it, too. **


	75. April 11

_Tony__: high-toned; stylish._

**April 11, 1978**

"This thing is going to suffocate me. Are you sure it's on right?"

"Yes, James, I'm sure. Now quit pulling at it and walk," Lily instructed, pulling James's hand away from the stiff suit collar buttoned under his chin. "Tuney said it was right up this way…."

Lily led the way up a street crowded with people in evening wear, couples clutching one another's arms as they hurried into softly lit shops and cinemas, children abnormally subdued under their mothers' watchful eyes lest they ruin their good clothes. It was obviously a nice part of town, and she was glad she had had the foresight to get James an ordinary Muggle suit.

"So what's this bloke supposed to be like, anyway?" James asked, taking a few long strides to catch up with her and slipping an arm around her shoulders. "You haven't said much about him."

"I'm not actually sure," Lily admitted, scanning the addresses of the buildings.

"What do you mean you're not sure?" James inquired, raising an eyebrow. "He's marrying your sister. Haven't you even got an idea?"

"Well…." Lily bit her lip. Yes, she had an idea what sort of man her sister might pick out, but she wanted to reserve judgment until after she'd met him. "You know Petunia and I don't talk much. You saw what she was like the other night, and that was with Mum and Dad riding her to be polite."

"Not even Sirius's brother is that cold to him," James agreed, wincing at the memory of dinner the first night he'd arrived.

Lily had persuaded James to come home with her during their last Easter holiday. Petunia was set to be married at the beginning of July, and the last thing Lily wanted was for her family to meet her boyfriend for the first time at Petunia's wedding. Her sister already seemed to think Lily stole her thunder enough.

'Here it is," said Lily suddenly, stopping outside one of the glass-fronted buildings in the middle of the block.

"You've got to be kidding me," James said, looking the restaurant up and down. It was easily the most upscale place in the whole down town. Through the frosted glass windows they could see silver platters being wheeled out to tables spread with gold-embroidered tablecloths. Waiters wore swayed vests edged in silver and the conversations were almost certainly about stocks and golf games and the latest runway styles.

Lily sighed as she spotted her sister's pale hair at the back of the dining room streaming down the back of her salmon cocktail dress. She was already showing off this Dursley fellow's money.

They pushed open the heavy glass doors and made their way to the table Petunia and her fiancé occupied. Vernon Dursley stood up and offered a hand to James as Lily hugged her sister. His beady eyes traveled up and down both of them.

"How do you do?" he said stiffly.

Lily saw James's face split into a grin and felt her heart sink. She knew that look.

"Very good, old chap, very good. How have you faired this fine evening?" he asked, sitting down and making a business of settling his napkin over his lap.

Lily sat down beside him, already feeling the evening slipping out of her grip.

**A/N: :D I was rereading a bit on Pottermore (open to everyone, now, so hopefully book two will be coming along soon) and got this idea. Hope you like it! Thanks a million to all who have reviewed or are planning to! :)**


	76. April 12

_Macaronic__: Composed of a mixture of languages._

**April 12, 1993**

She could feel it happening again, and she tried to fight him off. Tried harder than she ever had before because she could feel something terrible about to happen. She pushed toward the door where a stream of students was already pouring out onto the grounds, thinking that if only she could reach the sunlight, escape these walls, he would be powerless.

But still she found herself turning away, climbing the marble staircase in a blur, as if she were dreaming. As awful as it seemed to her, she missed the days when he had taken control without her even noticing, when events like this would be smoothly eradicated from her memory. As terrifying and confusing as it was to wake up in a cold, dark part of the castle with no idea how she'd gotten there, it was so much worse to be a drugged passenger in her own body. Especially when she knew what was coming.

They were in the bathroom now. She stood before the cracked mirrors and grimy sinks. She could see herself reflected there, pale and strange-looking with no expression on her face, a jagged break in the glass running right through her left eye. Then he opened her mouth and terror spiked silently inside her at hearing those awful, harsh, hisses.

_Open._ She could hear the word beneath the hissing, but the truly scary thing was that she could not tell if it was her voice or his.

Everything was growing fuzzy and garbled. The bathroom seemed lost to a fog. She never knew what happened after she faced the mirror and spoke that first word. She couldn't have told anybody how to get into the Chamber anyway. Strange, over-bright images of the castle flashed oddly before her, voices and footsteps, echoing off the stone walls or inside her own head she couldn't tell.

She had almost slipped away entirely, succumbed to blissful unawareness. But something jarringly familiar brought her back. A voice she knew. Two voices she knew….

"... a Basilisk. It kills by looking you in the eye."

"But how do you know?"

"Trust me. Wouldn't you rather be safe than sorry?"

"And how are we to be safe?"

"Have you got a mirror to look around corners with?"

She wanted to scream, to yell out to them to get away, to sob for Tom to _stop_, but she just rounded the corner silent as a shadow. For an instant she saw them standing close together, both looking in the mirror. She saw Hermione's eyes find her in the reflection, saw the shock begin to spread over her face.

But the next second, her vision had faded out and all she was aware of was that garbled, entwined mix of words and hissing in a voice frighteningly unlike and at the same time frighteningly like her own. _Time to kill_.

And then came the scrape of a heavy body sliding across stone.

**A/N: Ooo, kinda creepy, right? So this came out of nowhere, but I rather enjoyed writing it. An interesting foray into a different kind of scene. At least for me. Sorry I'm so far behind. Loads of homework and I have to give this awful speech tomorrow :/. And some people were asking about the HP Lexicon essay I mentioned. If you google Harry Potter Lexicon, it's the first sight that comes up. I tried finding the essay again, but I didn't have a lot of time to look for the exact link. I think there's a way to find essays, and then just scroll to you hit the topic you're looking for. Sorry, I'll do more research for you if you want. **


	77. April 13

_Approbate__: to approve officially._

**April 13, 1998**

A wicked storm was brewing. Remus watched the dark clouds churn overhead, a violent wind whipping at the young leaves just budding from the trees. He watched as a pale green shred was ripped from its branch and sent spinning to the ground, toppling helplessly end-over-end.

"You're doing it again," a drowsy voice said behind him.

He turned from the window as Dora stirred, pushing back the blankets and sitting up gingerly. Her protuberant belly bulged under one of Remus's shirts she'd nicked to sleep in. He could feel the baby coming fast, far more real to him than it had ever been – frighteningly and exhilaratingly so. The slightest movement made him worry she would pop.

"Doing what?" he asked perplexedly, nursing the cooling mug of coffee in his hands. (Dora eyed it jealously as she answered.)

"Worrying."

"Kind of hard not to," he said with dry amusement.

She scrutinized him a moment longer, absently rubbing circles over her stomach. "They can't tell us anything definitely," she said quietly. "You know they can't. It would be dangerous."

He nodded, unable to keep the miserable expression off his face as he set the mug down and perched beside his wife on the edge of the mattress.

"You'd think they could tell _me _though," he murmured. "Bill gave Molly and Arthur all the details…."

"That's different," Dora said gently.

And he had to concede the point, as much as it pained him. Not for the first time he wondered what James would say to him if he found out Remus had blasted his son into a wall for telling him off. He ran his fingers lightly over Dora's stomach and imagined what he would do to anybody who hurt that child, regardless of circumstance.

"Quit it," Dora said sharply, swatting the back of his head.

"Ow," he muttered, blinking at her reproachfully. "What now?"

"Now you're being all guilty and self-deprecating," she told him exasperatedly. Then she took his hand and her tone grew gentler. "Harry won't hold it against you. He's an understanding kid. He knows you weren't thinking straight."

Remus nodded, but he didn't look much cheered. An aching fear – one of many in a collection that seemed to multiply by the day – that the altercation in the basement of Grimauld Place would be the last between him and his best friend's son still gnawed at him.

"I've been thinking about something," he said suddenly, shifting on the bed and looking right into Dora's dark eyes. "I want to ask Harry to be godfather. I know you were thinking about Charlie Weasley, but… but considering how we left things, and since he helped push me back in the right direction…."

Remus didn't put into words his other reasons – ones he kept vaguely at the back of his mind. That when the darkest hour finally passed, Harry might need something to keep him together as surely as their son might…. Or that Remus might need some more solid connection than former student to hold onto as the flood of time did its best to rip memories away.

"He'd be the best," Dora agreed. She seemed to read those unspoken reasons, or maybe even have thought them herself. "Merlin knows he's earned it," she added, giving Remus's arm a sharp pinch.

Remus nodded and took a breath. "So it's official then. I can't wait to tell him."

**A/N: I've always imagined vaguely how this conversation would go. Remus's whole story during the last year of the war intrigues me, but especially what led him to the scene in Shell Cottage when he asks Harry to be Teddy's godfather. Aside from the obvious abashedness and reconciliatory thoughts, what prompted him to choose Harry as godfather? I think it was more than just knowing that if anything happened to him and Tonks (and I don't think he really expected anything to happen to Tonks) Harry would understand Teddy best. I think it was also to kind of officially tie Harry into his family, be it for Harry's sake, Teddy's sake, or even his own sake. Well, anyway, reviews are lovely! :)**


	78. April 14

_Irriguous__: well-watered, as land._

**April 14, 2015**

Scorpius fancied the marshes to be a giant oil painting, like the ones lining his mother's parlor. The boggy water glowed purple in the fading orange sun. Trees more wild than any he had seen anywhere else closed in around the muddy back garden, deep green leaves dripping over the low stone fence. The grass – where it grew – was dark, too, and long and swishing in the wind.

Outside the stone fence, the land was wild and uncivilized forever around. But inside the fence, in the muddy back garden with its millions and billions of strange herbs and luminescent flowers and the bench painted apple-red, everything was safe.

"Come along, Scorpius, love," Aunt Daphne said, straightening up with a wicker basket full of drippy leaves and sharp petals. "It's getting dark. Don't want to be out when the fog comes in, do we?"

Scorpius leapt off the back of the apple bench, landing with a splash in the muddy puddles and kicking up a shower of droplets that sparkled in the setting sun. Just like paint, he thought. The whole place was painted perfect. He ran to catch Aunt Daphne's hand as she waited by the open cottage door.

Aunt Daphne's house was just two rooms: an upstairs and a downstairs. Scorpius knew that Dad thought it was mental, that Grandmother Greengrass was painfully embarrassed, and that Mum would rather not say what she felt about her sister living in a swamp (it wasn't a swamp, Aunt Daphne said), but he thought it was brilliant. Aunt Daphne got to live in a storybook, he thought.

There was an iron cook stove in one corner that was always brewing some strange-smelling potion or other for Aunt Daphne's cellar store, and a pan of hot chocolate or honey milk for Scorpius. Dried flowers and bunches of leaves and vines were strung up across the ceiling 'for the pixies to play in' Aunt Daphne told him when he slept at her house, wrapped up snug before the fire. And in the middle of the room was a big wooden table for laying out and preparing stores from the garden and for mixing potions.

Scorpius ran to the table as Aunt Daphne shut the door and closed out the dark night 'before the brownies come out to play'.

"Can I help?" he asked eagerly, climbing up onto a chair.

Aunt Daphne set her basket on the table and pulled off her bonnet to let her dark hair curl down her back, pretending to scrutinize him carefully.

"I don't know… I need the best eyes for picking just the right petals to use."

"I've got the best eyes," Scorpius told her promptly, playing along with the game they always played.

His aunt raised an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "Oh really? Care to put it to the test?"

Scorpius nodded enthusiastically, dragging the wicker basket across the table and beginning to sort out good flowers from bad ones in his most practiced eye. Aunt Daphne watched him intently for a few moments before the potion on the stove began boiling over and she had to rush off to fix it.

Even the flowers were painted a special color of red that Scorpius never found anywhere but his aunt's garden. He ran his fingers lightly, delicately over the long, spikey petals, enthralled to be in the midst of such _magic_. Here was where magic must come from, he thought. It must drip off the trees and rise up out of the marshes and blossom in his aunt's garden, because nowhere else in the whole wide world was there such a place for anything to happen.

Daphne returned, slightly sweaty-faced and frizzy-haired, to check up on her nephew's progress. She Oo-ed and ah-ed and proclaimed she'd never seen such a keen selection of petals before as she ran an affectionate hand over her nephew's blond hair. Working away as he was, so thrilled to be part of his aunt's enchanted world, Scorpius couldn't know just then that he was the one that brought the enchantment.

**A/N: I've long-since felt that Daphne was a bit of a loner. Not sure why precisely. I have it in my head that Draco first attempted to win her affections after the war as she was a decent, pure-blood girl who had no affiliation with the war, but she was too absorbed in academia, in potion-brewing and such to take much notice of him, and he quickly shifted his attention to Astoria. Now, ten years down the road, Draco and Astoria have a wonderful son adored by his rather quirky aunt, who is not unhappy living out in the middle of nowhere on her own, but I imagine lonely at times. Anyway…. Just some backstory for you. :) Reviews are greatly appreciated. I know it looks like I have more than I know what to do with – which is an awesome testament to you guys! – but I average about three reviews a chapter, so I promise I read and value them all! :)**


	79. April 15

_Palladium__: anything believed to provide protection or safety; safeguard._

**April 15, 2003**

Zacharias didn't look at the huge marble pyramid that dominated the Ministry's atrium. He never did. It was raining outside – had been every morning for the past week – and he was too busy cursing under his breath and trying to dry his navy blue work robes with his wand to spare the monument covered in the names of the fallen a glance.

But someone else did. His wand gave a sudden spurt of burning heat, and when he leapt backwards with a yelp, he nearly knocked her face-first into the pyramid.

"Sorry," he grunted, hastily stepping away.

The young woman turned to look at him and he realized with a shock of recognition, who she was. Susan Bones, a housemate from the year above him and the first member of the DA he'd run into in several years. Maybe even as many as five. The long plait that had characteristically fallen down her back in school had been cut off so that her hair swished around her chin now, and there was a thin scar running across her right temple, but it was unmistakably Susan.

For a moment he hoped she wouldn't recognize him, but then he remembered that he didn't care what any of them thought about him not wanting to _die_ in that battle anyway.

"Zacharias!" she said, wiping at her cheeks (which he suddenly realized were damp) and attempting to give him a watery smile. "It's been ages, hasn't it? I wondered if I'd run into anybody else…."

"Er…." Zacharias said, taking another surreptitious step away. He hadn't the slightest inkling of what she was talking about and really just wanted to hurry away and never find out. Because more than likely it had something to do with that stupid monument. The one he had grown to despise slightly each time he came into work and had to remember the most horrible night in recent wizarding history. Not that he would know first-hand, or anything, but still….

Susan sensed his confusion. "Megan…" she said uncertainly, gesturing vaguely toward (sure enough) the war memorial. "Megan Jones? It would be her birthday today. Her 23rd birthday. She was in my dormitory. I mean, I never thought you two were close, but we all ran in the same circles…."

She trailed off, looking at his uncomprehending face with consternation. Zacharias had a vague memory of a soft-spoken girl with thick, chestnut pigtails, but if this girl was Megan Jones, it was news to him.

Susan turned her gaze back to the names cut into the marble. She stepped forward and lightly traced her fingers over on in particular, and even though Zacharias was trying to slip away without being too terribly rude, he couldn't help but note that it was Megan's name coupled with the dates of her birth and death: _April 15, 1980-May 2, 1998_.

"I thought you might have seen it, is all," Susan said over her shoulder, pinning Zacharias once more in place.

He fancied there was something accusatory in her eyes, which might have been the reason for the defensiveness in his voice as he told her gruffly, "I don't look much at the damned thing, actually."

Susan's mouth dropped open. "But… it's a commemoration piece… a tribute to everyone who gave their lives. While _you_ ran off to hide, I might add," she said in a distinctly angry tone.

Zacharias knew he was a coward. It was, ironically, the one thing he was not afraid to admit. So this remark didn't cut him too deeply.

"Doesn't mean I care to be reminded of hundreds of murders every time I walk into work," he said dismissively. "It's fine to commemorate heroes, but they don't have to do it right in the middle of a workplace. You can't tell me you like being reminded of your friends being slaughtered every morning. It's ridiculous, if you ask me."

Susan's face was stony now, her jaw set as she straightened her shoulders. She jabbed a finger at the base of the stone monument, where elegant letters proclaimed _May Their Memories Never Die_.

"They put this here so that no one would ever forget what Megan and all the rest did for us," she said coolly. "A safeguard to make sure we never let something like this happen again."

With one more cold look, Susan Bones turned and walked stiffly away. It would be another several years before he had another conversation with one of the comrades-in-arms he'd turned his back on.

That day Zacharias Smith began to realize that maybe he was ashamed of being a coward after all. And to make sure he never forgot it, he took a moment to look over at the gleaming white pyramid – a testament to bravery – each evening before he left.

**A/N: I am a Hufflepuff. Self-declared and then confirmed by the Sorting Hat itself. So maybe that's why I happen to like all those relatively story-less Hufflepuffs we don't get to hear too much about. Speaking of, I found that link to the essay about Harry's classmates on the Lexicon. You know, the one I was talking about in the chapter with Justin? Here it is: http:/www(dot)hp-lexicon(dot)org/essays/essay-secrets-of-the-classlist(dot)html replace all dots with actual periods, though, of course. **

**And again, so sorry for being so far behind. Life's been crazy, we'll just say that. **


	80. April 16

_Apercu__: a hasty glance; a glimpse._

**April 16, 2016**

It had happened a thousand times before.

Teddy was eight and Victoire six. Everything was ordinary and subdued in the Burrow's cramped kitchen, made less cramped by Ron and Harry working a long case, Ginny sentenced to bed rest due to complications with her difficult second pregnancy, and Hermione spending the day looking after her. The adults talked in low murmurs about the baby, about Ginny, about the same scary-sounding things that had put Teddy on edge for weeks now. But then, as he looked up from his plate, his eyes met with Victoire's wide, sparkling blue ones and he knew that little smirk playing around her face was about the gnome they'd seen stuck upside-down in an old wellington boot, and he couldn't help but burst out giggling.

Teddy was eleven and Victoire was nine. He touched the fireworks in his pocket as he lounged on the front porch of his grandmother's house, waiting for Victoire to chase the munchkins out of the kitchen so he could plant his secret weapon. She'd spent all day avoiding him for a reason Teddy strongly suspected had something to do with the countdown above his bed declaring only three days left before September first. But when Victoire passed him, chasing James, Dominique, and Louis out into the yard, she looked at him, rolled her eyes, and from the tiniest jerk of her lips, he knew the cost was clear.

Teddy was thirteen and Victoire was eleven. They didn't talk much at school. Teddy was too busy with Rob and the rest of his friends doing cool, third year things like going to Hogsmeade or talking about Care of Magical Creatures. As they passed in the corridors, their elbows brushed. Teddy flashed her a warning look, hoping she understood what he meant. Two minutes later, when Morgan Rass rampaged up the corridor looking for a certain gossip-filled, pink-flowered notebook, Victoire was safely hidden behind a tapestry around the corner, trying not to burst into giggles as she methodically tore out the pages incriminating half the girls in their year of embarrassing secrets – true or not.

Teddy was fifteen and Victoire was thirteen. Snow was pouring from the sky so thickly it was impossible to see the end of the road in Hogsmeade. They didn't see each other until they nearly bumped into one another, thickly decked out in Weasley sweaters and heavy cloaks. Victoire stumbled and slipped on a patch of ice outside the Three Broomsticks. Teddy shot out a hand to steady her and their eyes, the only visible parts of their faces, locked for a second. Teddy brushed past her, and she turned to watch him fight his way through the storm, away from the warmth of the pub behind her. But she knew enough from that look not to go after him. She wouldn't make him explain his reasons for wanting to be alone to her.

It had happened a thousand times. The glances were utterly ordinary and so habitual neither even noticed them anymore. An occasional and silent communication that had been a part of their lives for as long as either could remember.

Teddy was nearly eighteen and Victoire was nearly sixteen. The morning was howling with rain. They could hear it drumming in all its April fury against the ceiling of the Great Hall. Teddy glanced down the table. Victoire's long, strawberry blond hair spilled down her back as she threw her head back, laughing at something or other. Their eyes met.

And suddenly everything started to change.

**A/N: Oh you've got to love the two of them. :) Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews and support! To my last anonymous reviewer, I will definitely try to make that one work! :) **


	81. April 17

_Xenophilia__: attraction to foreign peoples, cultures, or customs._

**April 17, 1990**

"That was _you_, Mummy?"

Luna Lovegood turned wide, silvery eyes on the woman across the table from, dressed in a long lab coat with small grapevines weaving through her braid of thick, dirty blond hair. The image of the little girl with neat curls and a starched white pinafore beaming out of the old picture Luna held in her hands was impossible to reconcile with this woman.

Lara Lovegood laughed and scooted around the table to sit beside her daughter and look nostalgically at her childhood self.

"Mm-hm, that was me. Would you believe I used to dress just like my sisters and play the violin, too? Everyone who knew me expected for me to work in an office."

"But, Mummy, you do work in an office," Luna pointed out.

"Experimental charms only calls itself an office," her mother said, smiling. "Really it's a a frontier surrounded by a bunch of stuffy offices."

"Daddy says you come from the land of the white-picked-fences," Luna informed her mother, wrinkling up her nose.

Her mother laughed again. A sweet, carrying laugh that Luna loved. It sounded like wind chimes, she thought.

"I do," Lara Lovegood agreed. "And it's not a bad place. It isn't bad to be ordinary, but I've always liked extraordinary. It's good to look at things and people and places that are different from you with a mind wide open." She smoothed her daughter's hair and kissed the top of her head. "You remember that my pretty little loon."

She stood up from the table with a sweep of her long coat, paused to wave to her husband puttering around the garden, and disappeared down the stairs to her charms laboratory to keep working on her latest theory.

**A/N: And how could I not focus on the Lovegoods with this word, hm? :) Anyway, a few people have suggested a story about Luna and her mother, so there you have it. I hope you liked it! A million thanks to every single person who reviews this story! You guys are brilliant! **


	82. April 18

_Reconnoiter__: to make an inspection or observation._

**April 18, 1960**

No one ever went out as far as the old Perkins place. Sammy Abbott had dared them all once or twice, but no one had been brave enough to creep past the rickety old fence that ran along the property line. It was a creepy place, even without Sammy's tales of bloody specters and decrepit old warlocks who kept themselves alive by pulling out their hearts and suspending them in nasty potions. The porch was crumbling away, windows were cracked or missing altogether, and on windy days, the door's pining creaks could be heard all the way back in town as it flapped back and forth on rusty hinges.

But Arthur Weasley was ten now, and those stories and rotting floor boards didn't scare _him _anymore. It was a fine spring day, practically calling for adventure, and with most of the other children in town either old enough to be at Hogwarts or too young to be interesting to play with, Arthur had found his way to that rickety fence. In his opinion, it was high time someone actually had a look to see what was in the spooky old place.

So with a quick glance at the nearby houses to make sure no one was watching, Arthur ducked through the fence and dashed across the weedy, over-grown lawn.

The friendly sounds of distant Muggle cars and the putterings of neighbors going in and out of their houses seemed to vanish the moment his sneaker touched the old, cracked front step. His footsteps echoed loudly, each groan of the fragile wood bouncing off the pealing siding. Arthur's heart drummed in his mouth, but he boldly pressed on.

A breeze buffeted the door just as he reached for it, and Arthur jumped back, nearly tumbling off the side of the porch. Swallowing hard, he rushed forward and flung the battered door open, his momentum carrying him two steps into the dusty gloom of the inside of the house.

The windows were so coated with grime that Arthur could make nothing out at first but the indistinct forms of walls and windows. Then came the furniture, covered with sheets so they looked ghostly themselves. Dust swirled so thickly in the air it made Arthur cough and wheeze. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and forged on, peering into the dark corners of the deserted rooms for evidence of Sammy's haunting tales.

"Ha," Arthur said softly when he had circled the gloomy rooms and found nothing but more dust and spiders. "Knew he was lying. Bet the coward's never been near this place in his life."

But then his eyes fell on the cellar door. A rusted padlock had fallen to the floor in front of it. And of course every ten-year-old knows all the terrifying secrets are kept below ground. There was no point in his heart-pounding exploration if he left the cellar up to chance. So Arthur made his way to the once-locked door and tugged it open.

A waft of damp, rank air swept over him. Sucking hard on his lip, Arthur leaned forward to peer down into the black depths. He wished he had a wand so he could make a light like his mother did to retrieve peach preserves from their cellar. Somehow, he doubted anything as sweet as peaches waited down there for him. But Arthur was a Gryffindor (or would be in a year and a half), so he steeled himself and started down the steep ladder which served as a staircase.

The blackness closed further around him with every shaky step on the creaky ladder, the gloom of the upper floor looking as wonderfully bright as daylight from down here. Sammy Abbott would _never _believe what Arthur was doing. Neither would Lawrence Edgecomb, for that matter. They'd come back from Hogwarts thinking _their _stories were exciting and Arthur would be waiting with this. Little Artie wouldn't seem so little anymore.

Something _rrreeeech_-ed as it scampered over Arthur's shoe. His heart seemed to fly out of his mouth as he yelped and jerked on the unsteady ladder. He pitched backwards, flailing in the darkness, and the next thing Arthur knew, he was flat on his back in rich-smelling dirt. And the ladder was on top of him.

Arthur had just started to realize the desperation of his situation when the floorboards above his head creaked.

_Bloody specters_, Arthur thought with a whine of fear. _Horrible, mad old warlocks keeping their hearts in jars_….

"Aarr-thuurr?"

They knew his name! The distant voice seemed to seep right out of the ceiling. There was more creaking. Footsteps drawing nearer to the open cellar door. A black silhouette suddenly appeared in the doorway far above his head, blocking what little light streamed into the cellar.

"Artie, are you down there?"

"Bilius!" Arthur nearly screamed. He had never in his entire life been more pleased to hear his eldest brother's voice. "Billius, help!"

"Easy, Artie. Sit tight and I'll have you out of there in a second," Bilius instructed.

Arthur saw him pull out his wand. The tip glowed bright enough to illuminate every moldy corner of the dank cellar. A moment later, the ladder was flying off of Arthur, back into place against the back wall. Bilius slide down it as easily as if it were playground slide.

"You okay, Artie?" he asked urgently, kneeling over Arthur and lifting him under the arms, brushing the dirt out of his bright red hair.

Arthur coughed, trying to force air back into his lungs after the ground had smacked it all out of him. "Yeah – I think so."

Bilius sat back, running a hand through his hair and leaving grimy streaks there. "Merlin, Artie. Give me a bugin' heart attack, why don't ya? I thought you'd broke your back or somethin'."

He stood up and hauled Arthur to his feet, kneeling in front of him to give him a good inspection just in case Arthur was missing an injury.

"How'd you find me so fast?" Arthur asked, wincing as Bilius pressed a knot swelling on the back of his head.

"I might be two years out of school and still no friend of the workforce, but I'll be damned if I can't at least keep my baby brother from gettin' himself killed out of boredom," Bilius told him, standing up and ruffling Arthur's hair, apparently satisfied that he was all in one piece. "C'mon Art. What d'you say we return to the light of day, huh?"

"You followed me?" Arthur asked, indignation quickly defusing his gratitude. "I'm _not _a baby, Bilius. I explored a haunted house that Sammy Abbott wouldn't even dare to."

"And I'll even help you rub it in his face when he gets home from school. Rupe's too, come to that," Bilius promised, hoisting Arthur up onto the third step of the ladder and prompting him to climb. "And I wouldn't call it following. More like casual observation."

Arthur's indignation lasted until they were back outside, walking down the street, Bilius swatting the dust off of Arthur's clothes and completely oblivious to the cobwebs sticking to his own hair like lace. But then his frown turned into a smirk.

"What?" Bilius demanded, poking Arthur jokingly in the ribs.

"No warlock hearts," Arthur told him with satisfaction. "Not anywhere."

"Did you check the attic?" Bilius asked. He laughed as Arthur's face fell and grabbed his little brother in a loose headlock. "_Everyone _knows they keep the good stuff in the attic."

**A/N: Longish, eh? Figure it makes up for yesterday's short one. I do happen to like Arthur's brothers Especially Bilius. I imagine Arthur to be quite a bit younger than both his brothers. Ten and eight years, so he was really the baby of the family. Hopefully I'll be able to flesh out this dynamic a bit later :) Thank you all ever so much for your feedback! It is always appreciated! **


	83. April 19

_Bona fides__: Good faith; the state of being exactly as claims or appearances indicate._

**April 19, 1996**

"Come on, mate. Cheer up."

"Really, it's not so bad."

"Trust us."

"We've had loads of detentions before."

"But it's with _her_," the small boy practically wailed, burying his face in his hands. "I've seen what happens to people that get detention with _her_! And I didn't even do anything!"

"Easy, Nigel," George said in an uncharacteristically calming voice, putting a hand on the second year's shoulder. "You'll be fine. Buck up a little, eh? It's only one night."

"Here," Fred added, digging around in his pocket and pulling out a colorfully wrapped biscuit. "We'll even give you a little mood boost."

Nigel tentatively took the cookie and squinted at it skeptically. "Is this one of your products?"

"Well, yeah, but it's one of the cooler ones," George assured him. "Don't worry. You'll be perfectly fine."

"Just give it one little lick," Fred encouraged. "You'll see what we mean."

"A tiny tap of the tongue," George agreed.

For a moment, Nigel hovered on the edge of unwrapping the wafer, but then he shook his head and held it back out to the twins. "Er, I think I'll pass."

"What, you don't trust us?" Fred asked in a wounded voice.

"I turned into a giant canary five times last year thanks to you two," Nigel told them firmly.

George grinned. "Smart kid. I like you even more, now, Nige."

"But it really will make you feel better," Fred went on.

"Just make sure you're not the one to eat it," George added, winking.

"Might I suggest a few tactics for slipping it into the bag of the Inquisitorial Squad bastard who landed you in detention?" Fred offered, putting a conspiratorial arm around Nigel's shoulders with a wicked grin.

**A/N: You know Nigel from the movies? I know he's not exactly cannon and kind of a replacement for Colin Creevey, but I find him so irresistibly cute that I've decided he could very well exist. I'm very bad at recognizing people correctly, so I might be totally wrong, but I think there's a scene in Order of the Phoenix (the movie obviously) with Fred and George comforting Nigel or some other younger student over Umbridge's detentions. I've always been touched by the idea, so this is a small prelude to that happening. **

**Also, this is something of a birthday gift for Poppy P who has left me a mass quantity of excellent reviews for chapters long past as she's been catching up. I know you were looking for funny, but funny isn't really my strong suit. It comes to me spontaneously and never when I need it. I hope Fred and George's presence was enough. :)**


	84. April 20

_Agnomen__: a nickname._

**April 20, 1973**

"Psst, Moony! Quit taking notes and participate in _passing _them," Sirius hissed in his ear, tossing a crumpled piece of parchment onto his desk.

"Black, if I have to tell you to be seated again, it will be detention," McGonagall snapped, not even turning away from the black board.

"How does she do that?" Remus heard James whisper as Sirius slid back into his chair.

"It is a gift, Potter. Now I suggest you make use of that fine eagle feather quill _you_ received as a birthday gift and start writing things down."

"She doesn't even break chalk contact with the board!" James marveled, picking up his quill.

Remus kept copying down information as if he hadn't been aware of any of this until Sirius kicked the back of his leg impatiently. Casting an irritated look over his shoulder at James and Sirius, he quickly smoothed out the parchment that had been launched onto his desk.

_Can we see your den tonight? _was scrawled in Sirius's messy pen.

Forgetting McGonagall's gift, Remus whipped around in his chair to pin his friends with an angry look.

"Lupin! Eyes at the front, please."

Remus slowly turned around, all thought of note-taking out of his head. Instead he seized his quill and scrawled a furious reply, chucking the paper over his shoulder into Sirius's face.

"What's he mean by that?" muttered James, leaning over to read Remus's message as well.

"What?" Peter asked, swiveling in his chair to see what the others were tossing back and forth.

"Boys! Eyes up front and put that note away or I shall let the entire class in on your conversation!"

When the bell rang ten minutes later, Remus was almost the first one into the corridor, pretending he couldn't hear his friends' calls.

"Oi, Remus! What's the rush?" James demanded, darting between boisterous students to plant himself firmly in Remus's path. He might be four inches shorter than Remus, but he was quicker than a golden snitch.

"I have a lot of homework, James, okay? I need to get to the library."

Remus attempted to brush past, but Sirius and Peter had caught up to them by now and were effectively blocking his escape routes.

"We don't have anything due until Friday," Peter pointed out, picking, as ever, the most inconvenient time to be shrewd. "And we're in exactly the same classes."

"What's your problem?" Sirius demanded impatiently. "Ever since we brought up the Shrieking –"

Remus clapped a hand over his mouth, looking around in panic. A second later he yanked his hand away and wiped it on his robes in disgust.

"Ew, Sirius, did you just lick me?"

"Worked on Narcissa every time," Sirius smirked, cackling at the memory.

"The point is," James persisted, stepping forward and lowering his voice. "You promised to bring us to the shack sometime soon, and now you're freaking out over it. What's up?"

"You can't just _talk _about stuff like that in public!" Remus hissed, looking around at the students filtering around their huddled group. "What if someone heard you?"

"Who cares?" Sirius shrugged. "They won't know what we're talking about."

James nodded. "You're too paranoid for your own good. C'mon Moony –"

"Would you quit calling me that!" Remus burst out.

His friends recoiled a step in surprise. James and Sirius exchanged a taken-aback glance.

"What, 'Moony'? We've been calling you that all year!"

"And suppose someone heard you and started wondering how it got started?" Remus said between gritted teeth. "That's not who I am. I'm not Moony, your interesting" – he mouthed the word 'werewolf' – "friend, okay? I'm just Remus and I'm done being your entertainment."

Again he attempted to push past them, but James and Sirius each grabbed him by the upper arms and forced him backwards into an empty classroom. Peter scuttled in after them, closing the door as Remus wrenched himself free.

"Alright, _what_?" James exclaimed, gaping at Remus.

"Our entertainment?" Sirius repeated incredulously. "What d'you take us for exactly, Lupin?"

"It's just a nickname, Remus," said James quietly.

"No, it's a label," Remus corrected. "And I'm done with it. If all I am to you is another reckless stunt – Ow!"

He broke off, rubbing his forehead where Sirius had flicked him hard enough to smart.

"Are all your synapses firing again?" Sirius asked shortly. "In case it hasn't sunk in during the past two years, we happen to enjoy your company as a human for some unfathomable reason. Despite your hobbies being studying and going off on your friends."

"I mean, if you'd rather, we could call you bookie," James offered. "But that might attract some unwanted attention from the staff about your gambling problem." He met Remus's eyes earnestly. "Honestly mate. Just a nickname."

"Sorry," Remus muttered, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Jumping to the worst conclusion was just such a kneejerk reaction, a defense mechanism that he couldn't control. Why was it still so hard to believe people outside of his family actually wanted to hang around him?

"So… is that a no for going to the Shack tonight?" Peter piped up from by the door.

Sirius turned around to punch him on the shoulder. Peter yelped and automatically responded with a retaliatory elbow in Sirius's side. Sirius lunged at him, and Peter fumbled for the doorknob. A second later the pair of them had toppled out into the corridor.

"C'mon, Moony," James said, flinging his arm around Remus's shoulders with a sly grin. "Let's go join the party."

**A/N: Some marauders' cheer for you :) I've actually wanted to write a scene like this for a while now. I've got a lot of ideas about the dynamic of this group that I just don't want to outright say in a story, but it will take a lot of show-not-tell to get it out there. I adore hearing from you all! **


	85. April 21

_Hsien__: one of a group of benevolent spirits promoting good in the world. _

**April 21, 1493**

Fog swirled over the grounds, parted here and there by a pale ray of sunshine. Spring was rolling over the world. Budding flowers, baby birds, new life. A phenomenon that he would see surely a thousand times over, but would never feel again. What was son wrong with old life?

"You aren't still up here sulking, are you, Nick?"

The transparent essence of what had once been Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington shifted a glum expression to the rotund friar hovering half-through the wall to his left.

"What else is there to do for all of eternity?" he asked desolately.

The Fat Friar shook his head and pulled himself all the way into the room. "Perhaps you might enjoy mingling with the other souls trapped here, living or dead."

"Living souls aren't trapped here," Nick said dully. "They will leave and go on to live out the rest of their long, numerous days, and then they will leave this world contentedly and without shameful fear."

"Ah, a mood of self-pity today, then," the Friar noted, gliding over to look out the window beside Nick. "The dramatic usually gravitate towards such a state."

"Dramatic?" Nick sputtered, momentarily shaken out of his brooding. "Who is being dramatic? I have perished!"

"As have I," the Friar agreed. "Though but half a year ago, you had not. Did I begrudge you your life then?"

Nick said nothing.

"Our troubles have ceased to matter, Nick," The Friar went on. "What desperations we clung to in life are untouchable now. Whatever happens, what have we to worry about? But them – the budding youth – they are at the apex of woe. Recall you not the turmoil of departing childhood? And as you say, they have many a day ahead of them for such troubles to matter very much.

"If you are to be bound to this earth forevermore, might you not at least offer a kind ear and a gentle word to your fellow wanderers? You may have no choice in discarding your body, but humanity is always cast aside. Never stolen."

Nick did not look around at him, made no indication that he had heard. The Friar bobbed beside him for a while longer in silence, but eventually turned and drifted away with a sigh. The newcomers always took ages.

It was nearly nightfall when weeping disturbed Nick's solitude. At first he could ignore it, but slowly it crept into him, into a heart he had not been sure he still possessed. He turned and glided through the wall into a dark stone corridor. In the starlit window at the end of the passageway a figure was curled.

"Wherefore you weep, fair maiden?" Nick asked softly, wafting nearer.

The girl looked up at him with streaming eyes, mouth fluttering like a baby bird's.

Nick offered her a gentle smile, seating himself on the windowsill beside her. "Surely you cannot be in a worse predicament than myself. I do not know if I'm headless or not."

"Perhaps you are nearly headless," the girl suggested, the tiniest of smiles dancing on her face.

**A/N: And that is the story of how Nearly-Headless Nick gained his nickname. :) Alright, he was bound to pick it up at some point over the past 500 years. I've been reading a lot of Shakespeare lately. Guess it inspired me. I hope you enjoyed this trifle :)**


	86. April 22

_Obtuse__: not quick or alert in perceptions, feelings, or intellect. _

**April 22, 1995**

"Are you going?"

Hermione set down her quill with an exasperated sigh and looked across the table at Ron.

"For the eleventh time," she said with exaggerated patience. "I don't _know_. How many times are you going to ask me that?"

It had been almost two months since Rita Skeeter's article had appeared in Witch Weekly, letting the whole country in on Hermione's potential summer plans. Since then, Ron had asked her at least once a week if she was planning on taking Krum's offer. And with each new question, Hermione was becoming increasingly irritated.

"What's it to you where I spend my summer holidays?" she asked now.

"To me? It's nothing to me. I'm only one of your best friends," Ron grumbled, practically stabbing his quill into his ink pot.

"I don't hear Harry grilling me about my travel plans," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah, well," Ron muttered, scribbling on his parchment. "He's got other things to worry about, hasn't he?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"But you're avoiding the question," Ron accused, pointing the end of his quill at her. "Do you or do you not want to go to Bulgaria this summer?"

"I think it would be lovely to go to Bulgaria," Hermione began.

"I knew it!" Ron interrupted. "I knew you wanted to go. Well that's just fine. Harry and I could use a break from you nagging us to do our homework in July anyway. I hope you have loads of fun with Krum."

He slammed his book shut so hard the ink bottle sitting five inches away tipped over and a dark, sticky liquid oozed across the table. Hermione swept her things into her bag with an irritated scowl and stood up.

"_But _I was thinking I would rather spend the summer with you. Now I'm not so sure," she said angrily before turning and stalking away.

Ron gaped after her. Girls were _mental_.

**A/N: Hehe. Poor Ron. Actually, I think he's a pretty smart and perceptive guy when he tries to be. But he definitely has his moments… a lot of them. **


	87. April 23

**A/N: There used to be a chapter for April 23, but somehow it accidentally got replaced with the 28. Unfortunately, I don't save every chapter individually because I don't want 366 word docs cluttering my files, which means this chapter is lost to the digital ether. It was about Teddy being born and I rather liked it, so it's somewhat upsetting that it's gone. Maybe one day I'll rewrite it. So sorry!**

**Anyway, for those readers who, like me, follow Aurhor's Notes so long as they're not terribly long or random, be prepared for mine to get vastly unchronological in the coming chapters. Right about May 2 I slipped off my good updating pattern, so the first half of May will mostly be filled in much much later. Then after about June 7, things just got crazy and became me filling in when and wherever there was inspiration and time and then putting things back in order so it's all jumbled up. It's not really important, but if you follow author's notes like me because you find most people somewhat interesting or amusing, be prepared for confusion. :) **

**Oh, and here's a friendly reminder not to hesitate to review chapters even this far back. I still love to know what YOU thought of them :) Thanks for reading this!**


	88. April 24

_Fard__: to apply cosmetics. _

**April 24, 1997**

The mirror had become her enemy. Actually, everywhere in the castle had taken on an unfriendly air for Marietta Edgecombe. Everyone knew. And even if they didn't know exactly what she had done, they were reminded that she had royally ticked someone off every time they looked at her.

She had never been a great beauty. Not like Cho with her sleek waterfall of black hair, her sparkling dark eyes, her sweet, smooth face, and her athletic grace. Standing next to her best friend, Marietta had always looked as plain as a cardboard cutout. Her frizzy ginger ringlets, milky skin, dull, grayish eyes, and smatter of freckles had never been anything to boast about. But she had never wanted to hide her face every time someone glanced her way before.

Grimacing, Marietta sat down at the vanity table in the Ravenclaw seventh year, girls dorm and leaned in to inspect her reflection. A daily sort of punishment. The marks had faded in the last year. They were no longer bulbous purple boils that smarted at the slightest touch. By the end of last year, they had lost their physical discomfort all together, and over the summer they had shrunk and faded considerably. But they were still there.

Now they were a fading line of blue bumps. They still stood out painfully obviously to her each morning as she examined them and hoped they were smaller and lighter than the day before. But now, under a thick layer of makeup, it was barely possible to discern them unless you knew what you were looking for. And everyone did. That was the problem.

Sighing, Marietta reached for her well-worn bag of cosmetics and began applying liberal amounts of cover-up as Cho emerged from the bathroom their dormitory shared.

"How do they look?" she asked as she often did. Marietta knew Cho still harbored some amount of guilt as it had been she who had roped Marietta into the whole Dumbledore's Army business in the first place.

"The same," she told her friend sullenly. "I'd like to write 'bitch' across Hermione Granger's face."

Cho frowned. "It was a nasty trick, but I suppose she isn't so completely horrid."

Marietta rolled her eyes. "Just because it turned out you were wrong about her and Harry Potter last year doesn't mean she isn't still a bitch."

But it never meant she was in the first place, a small part of Marietta thought as Cho shrugged one shoulder and went to pick up her school things with a swish of her long black hair. In fact, as much as most of her hated Granger for the humiliation of the past year, there was a part of her that hated herself just as much for being weak and blind and, no matter how she spun it in her own head, traitorous. And it was being reminded of all this each morning that was the real torture.

But it was easier to hate Hermione Granger, as nearly half of her class mates did at some point or another, for being right.

**A/N: A bit distant, but the emotion of the last chapter seemed like enough to hold you over until I find a more interesting word. And really, who else could this word fit so well? I hope you enjoyed it anyway, but reviews are welcome regardless! :)**


	89. April 25

_Barnburner__: something that is highly exciting or impressive. _

**April 25, 2030**

"Merlin, it's a madhouse out there."

Albus Potter's lips curved in a smirk as he looked up at his best friend.

"Have a drink, Malfoy, and I'll try not to remind you that you brought this on yourself."

"You're a rubbish mate," Scorpius informed him, dropping to the damp grass behind the crumbling stone church in Hogsmeade and snatching the flask Albus offered him. "And an even worse best man. Getting sodding drunk while my mother made me change my tie three ruddy times."

"I brought the Firewhiseky, didn't I?" Albus pointed out, unperturbed by Scorpius's assault on his friendship.

Scorpius took a generous swig from the silver flask and handed it back to Albus, shaking his head vigorously as the substance burned down his throat. "About fifty more of those and I'll be ready. Your _dad's _playing referee, Mum's currently looking for _another_ bloody tie, and James is conspicuously absent."

"Bloody hell," Albus muttered, turning and craning his neck to peek in the stained glass window just above his head.

Scorpius took a deep breath before he asked the next question. "How's Rose?"

"Lily locked me out," Albus told him, gingerly rubbing the ear his sister had used to drag him from the dressing room.

"Don't tell me that stopped you," Scorpius snorted.

Albus cast him a dubious look. "You have _met _my baby sister, haven't you? But yeah, I snuck in the window. I am Rose's best man after all. There's no way I'd be going through all this for a Slytherin prat like you."

Said Slytherin prat smacked his best friend's shoulder. "Grandmother sacked the florist _after _a hundred bouquets of red carnations were here, Mum's cried three times (only once over the carnations), Dad got into a brawl with your uncle, Louis knocked over the cake, Roxanne and Lucy are herding pigmey puffs, and James is _conspicuously absent_. Why the _hell _did you let me get into this?"

"As you'll recall, I was unconscious when the two of you decided to start snogging," Albus reminded him, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "The second I get knocked out you two are all over each other. Isn't it lovely to be so important to your two best friends? But I hope you've learned never to make life-changing decisions like this while I'm out of commission."

"Haven't we already talked about your feelings?" Scorpius muttered.

Albus shrugged and chucked a stone over the low wall encircling the church and separating it from the cemetery on the other side. Funny how convenient it was to the place of marriage. Scorpius took another swig out of the flask.

"Rose's walking on air," Albus said finally.

Scorpius looked at him sideways, disbelieving. "Funny. Think I'd notice if my fiancé didn't have _ears _or something…."

Albus waved a hand. "She's heard it all, but she doesn't care. Scorp she _told _you this would happen, remember? And since when had Rose Megan Weasley ever been wrong about anything?" He clapped his friend on the shoulder again and gave him an earnest look. "I've known Rose since the day I was born – literally, she was there. As mad as it is – as _traitorous _as it is for both of you to abandon me like this – I've never seen her happier. Now I might be your best man, but if you let that smile slip off her face once tonight, I won't hesitate to sick Hugo on you, got it?"

Scorpius grinned just as a loud bang rattled the windows of the church behind them. Albus got to his feet and offered a hand to pull Scorpius up beside him. "At least no one can say it's not exciting. Shall we slink off for a last call with Arora at the Three Broomsticks? Last time you can notice her curves without me having to bruise your jaw. Or better yet, let your _wife _at you."

"Shut it, Potter."

And the two fled down the narrow back road, away from the currently-smoking church.

**A/N: The moment I saw this word I knew it had to be Rose and Scorpius's wedding. Yes, I ship them. I didn't at first, but then I fell in love with Scorpius. Not quite as in love as I am with Teddy and Albus, but very much in love. Anyway… this chapter was highly influenced by another AMAZING fic I read about this very day. That fic was much longer, much more in-depth, and – frankly – much more vulgar. I wouldn't recommend you read it if you're offended by excessive smoking, swearing, drinking, or sexual innuendos, but aside from that, it's marvelous. Can't remember what it's called or if I've favorite it or not…sorry. Please review? :) **


	90. April 26

_Adenoidal__: being characteristically pinched and nasal in tone quality._

**April 26, 1998**

The Ravenclaw common room was really a beautiful place. High windows looked out at the soaring mountains, giving the feel of being perched in an eagle's nest, fine statues and paintings decorated the walls with an elegant beauty, old, leather-bound books lined the bookcases with inviting swirls of gold and silver lettering and bright paintings animating the covers. But most breathtakingly impressive of all was the ceiling. It glittered with hundreds of bright, glowing stars, shooting meteors, gemlike planets. It was better than the Great Hall's ceiling in many ways because it was not found to reflect the weather, but always showed a more-vivid-than-life picture of the night sky.

It was not uncommon for students to linger in their common room long after most of their classmates in other houses had would have already gone to bed, lying back on the thick rugs and gazing up at the glittering ceiling. Such was the case on a blustery evening at the end of April, in a time when darkness had encroached on the rest of the castle, and it seemed that no one wanted to be alone in the dark anymore.

Most of MandyBrocklehurst's year had vanished. They must be somewhere in the school, but no one could figure out where they had gone. They didn't come to meals. They didn't attend classes. Yet once in a great while they'd be spotted roaming the corridors, although their dorm mates (if any were left to testify) swore their beds hadn't been slept in for ages. Mandy knew they hardly had a choice. They had pushed the rebellion so far that if they were ever caught, she shuddered to think what would become of them. And that thought scared her immensely.

Of the eleven Ravenclaw seventh years, only three remained. Mandy, Kevin Entwhistle, and Lilith Moon. Oliver Rivers was a Muggle-born, but all the rest had disappeared in groups of two and three because they spoke out, acted out, and refused to go down without a fight. This marked the brave. Mandy admired them, and if she could have, she liked to think she would have joined them. Lisa was one of her best friends, after all.

But Mandy Brocklehurst had three younger brothers to think of. And someone needed to stay in Ravenclaw Tower, to keep fear at bay as best they could within the confines of those few circular rooms. And that evening, as Lilith Moon plucked at the strings of a large bass in the corner and thought of Terry Boot and how he'd played it so beautifully as the first snow fell last December, and Kevin Entwhistle slumped in his chair and stared at a picture of the beautiful, laughing face of Lisa Terpin, Mandy began to tell a story.

She lay back on the hearth rug, wild dark curls splayed behind her. Her youngest brother – barely twelve – was curled beside her, using her stomach as a pillow, and she absently rubbed his hair as she began to weave the stories of the constellations.

It was as though she were casting a spell. More than half the house was crowded into the round common room, gazing upward at images they fancied to move and change with the story, but the stillness outside of Mandy's voice was absolute. As the embers died, Mandy's high, nasally voice, most often heard gently nagging after her brothers, or soothing her friends if it was heard at all, rose into the darkness and filled it with light and color and the hope of valiant heroes.

Even Lilith and Kevin were drawn out of their somber musings, enraptured by Mandy's stories. And for a time, thanks to sweet, quiet, little Mandy Brocklehurst, all their fears were pushed away.

After all, only in the black of night can you see the stars.

**A/N: I've been wanting to do some random Ravenclaw character exploration for a while, so I went and reread that essay about the original forty, combined it with the class list on Pottermore, and developed some hardly-mentioned-at-all-if-ever characters. Unfortunately only a few got to be showcased here. I wish I could paint a better picture for you…. Maybe later. Hope you liked it anyway. And can anyone tell me if/where they've heard that last line before? I did in fact get it from somewhere else, and if you can guess where (which might be awfully tricky), I'll dedicate a chapter to you! :) **


	91. April 27

_Nosh__: to snack or eat between meals. _

**April 27, 1986**

"I don' wana," Dudley moaned into his pillow. His fair hair was all his mother could see, sticking up wildly as he burrowed deeper into his rocket ship sheets, grumpy as ever as she tried to persuade him get out of bed for school.

"Diddy-Dumpling," Aunt Petunia cooed sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing her little boy's back. "It's time to greet the day. You've got to get up and get dressed and go to school to show everyone what a smart little boy you are."

"Aunt Petunia." Harry hovered near the door, already dressed and clutching the brown paper sack lunch she'd thrown together for him. His messy bangs were in his eyes behind his glasses, making him squint ridiculously. "Clock says –"

"Go comb your hair," she snapped, knowing what time it was and beginning to get frustrated.

"But –"

"Go," she barked, giving him a sharp look.

Harry, who was far too used to this to be much affected, sighed and withdrew from Dudley's room, attempting to brush his hair out of his eyes with little success.

"Diddy," Aunt Petunia simpered, turning back to her son and smoothing all the frustration out of her voice. She would hate to take out her feelings on the innocent child when it was her nephew and his nagging that was the source of the problem. "Get up, angel." Then, seized by a sudden inspiration. "If you hurry and get dressed we can stop at the store for those yummy biscuits you like so much for you to have at break."

Dudley sat up, rubbing his face with a chubby fist.

"With sprinkles?" He asked skeptically.

"Absolutely," his mother promised, relieved as she ran an affectionate hand through his hair.

XxX

"It's not fair!" Dudley wailed in the back seat of the car. "Harry didn't get in trouble!"

"I didn't do anything!" Harry exclaimed at once, rife with indignation. "You and Piers brook it!"

"That's enough," Aunt Petunia snapped, glowering at her nephew in the rearview mirror.

"That's enough," Dudley mimicked, throwing his empty juice box at his cousin. Then he turned his attention back to his mouth. "It's not fair!" he whined again. "It's not fair, it's not fair, it'snotfair!"

"I know, lamb, it's not," she soothed. "Here," she groped in the glove compartment and handed a bag of animal crackers back to her son. "You get a treat now and Harry doesn't. Will that even it out?"

Dudley dumped the animal crackers on the ground and began demanding crisps instead, to which his mother of course complied.

XxX

"Go away, Dudley," Harry told his cousin irritably that evening as he lay on his belly, scribbling a picture with the crayons he was supposed to use only for school.

"Mummy gave _me _ice cream," he gloated, slurping at the tall ice cream cone he indeed clutched in his fat fists.

A drip splattered onto Harry's picture and he wrinkled his nose and tried to wriggle out of the way, but Dudley followed, standing over right over him and noisily licking his desert.

"I told her I caught my finger in the door, so she gave me ice cream," he leered. "Bet _you _wouldn't get ice cream."

"I'm not a big fat liar," Harry shot up at him, scowling as Dudley stepped on his paper and wrinkled the drawing.

Dudley stuck his tongue out, then stamped on Harry's fingers and stomped away.

Harry gave a yelp of pain, which brought his aunt into the room at once.

Dudley was right. He didn't get ice cream.

**A/N: Poor Harry. He had it appallingly unfair, didn't he? But in the end Dudley didn't have it much better if this is how his mother dealt with all his problems. Anyway… Prom yesterday, AP Exams this week, hopefully my updates don't fall any more behind than they already are :( Reviews are like dove chocolates for encouragement! :)**

**Oh, and yeah, that last line from the last chapter was from One Tree Hill. :D Congrats to everyone who guessed it! I do admit to liking that show a lot back in the first four seasons or so. Most of it, anyway…. I like the philosophical bits in it like that line. **


	92. April 28

_Littoral__: pertaining to the shore of a lake, sea, or ocean. _

**April 28, 2023**

The beach never changed. In nineteen years, it had looked exactly the same. The same grainy sand – millions of insignificant little granules that had arranged to show a thousand footprints meandering to and from the water. The same waves – different water, but the same energy – pounding their relentless battle with the land, gaining some each day only to have it taken away. The rocky cliffs presiding over it all, born of millennia of wear. It had all been here exactly like this for nineteen years. For much, much longer than that.

And it would stay here exactly like this for many thousands of years more. No matter what happened, unconnected from the swiftly changing lives of the people who played out their heartbeat-long lives on this shore, none of this would ever change.

It was not like Louis Weasley to be introspective. His mind wandered among the clouds, far away, preoccupied with other things and places and dreams. He looked perpetually to the future or to the never-in-a-million-years-but-it-would-be-nices. He was cheerful and easy-going and more or less content to drift wherever he fancied regardless of who came with. And because of this, people often forgot, or never knew to begin with, how philosophical he could be.

But today, as he stood on the shores of the sea that had been his backyard for his entire life, all of that introspection he'd avoided for so long was catching up to him.

"Hey."

Louis didn't look around. He might not have even heard the voice, but she knew he had. Dominique swung her bare, freckled legs over the low wall that separated a stone path from the beach. She swept her short, wild, red hair into a haphazard ponytail to get it off of her neck, and began across the sand, stopping when she drew level with her brother.

"Thought I'd find you down here. 'Course that's mostly because I didn't find you in your room or the kitchen or the Quidditch grove or even the broom shed."

Louis shrugged. "Your powers of deduction are marvelous, Dom," he told her, but his voice lacked the usual wry, sarcastic note that usually prompted his sister to throw something at him.

Dominique watched him out of the corner of her eye, pretending to stare out to the horizon at a bobbing, red sailboat. He was taller than their father now, thin and casually slouched with his hands in his pockets, his red hair windswept, and his bright blue eyes uncharacteristically distant.

"You thinking about tonight?" she murmured, knowing the answer. Louis was not a complicated person, and it was always fairly obvious what brought about his moods.

"Suppose so," he shrugged. "It'll all be different…."

"Well it's not as if you're going to another planet," Dominique snorted, perhaps sounding more derisive than she meant to. Honestly, he wasn't the only one who had to say goodbye.

"Practically," Louis retorted, the faintest hint of a sulk in his voice.

Dominique rolled her eyes. Her brother would always have a bit of seven-year-old boy in him.

"In case you've forgotten, Oh Exiled One, _you _were the one who's been itching to floo out of here since you figured out there were dragons in Romania. You've been begging Mum to be happy about your adventure for a year."

"But now I'm actually _leaving_," Louis protested. "In three hours, I'm going to be gone for good! The next time I see you, Vic'll probably have a whole slew of rugrats and you'll be married to some jerk Quidditch player and James and Fred'll be on probation from the Ministry and Molly'll be vice junior undersecretary to the guy below the _Minister of Magic himself_" – he drew a great, shuddering breath – "and I'll probably have a beard."

Dominique stifled a chuckle. She couldn't help it. Her brother's eyes had gotten wider and wider with every prediction and now he ran a hand over his smooth jawline as if expecting facial hair to pop into existence at any moment.

"That's a lot to accomplish by _Christmas,_ Lou," she pointed out. "Uncle Charlie comes home every Christmas at least. It's no longer than you used to be at Hogwarts for."

"That's different. You all were at Hogwarts with me. Point is, Dom, I'm gonna miss everything. Everyone's gonna go on living their lives and one day I'll come home and only know it's home because the beach looks the same. Dragons are brilliant and working with Uncle Charlie is all I ever wanted to do for ages, but I didn't really think about what that _meant_, you know?"

"You're not going to miss everything," Dominique scoffed. "We still have _owls, _you git. And they do give you time off for, you know, important things like your sisters getting married and having kids and your cousins going to jail and… well, probably not for whatever Molly thinks she's going to accomplish, but we're all trying to find excuses to get out of that one anyway. You're not going to miss _anything_."

"Uncle Charlie did," Louis said very quietly.

They were quiet for a moment.

"Not everything," Dominique countered.

"A lot of things," Louis murmured. "He wasn't there when any of us were born. He couldn't get time off for Uncle George's wedding. He wasn't 'round when you and Roxie got to play that halftime game with the Harpies or when Granddad got his Order of Merlin when he retired or that time Al was in St. Mungo's…. When you say the whole family's going to be there, you don't mean Uncle Charlie and you won't mean me either."

Dominique felt her temper fair. She couldn't explain why. Except that maybe Louis was saying things she'd been thinking ever since she'd heard he was really taking off for Romania, and her natural impulse as his big sister was to mock his worries until they no longer seemed worthy of being anxious over, but she couldn't do that because for months, now, she'd wanted to say all of that to him herself.

For a long time they looked at each other, sneaking glances out of the corners of their eyes. Louis was practically begging to be reassured (he was due to take a national port key in two hours and fifty-three minutes after all). And Dominique was chewing the inside of her cheek and trying to settle on what exactly she wanted to say to her brother now that he had stolen her argument.

At last, as the sun began to sink rapidly toward the sparkling horizon, she turned, swept the loose tendrils of fiery hair out of her face, and said simply, "You're not Uncle Charlie."

"But –"

"Look, I don't pretend to know everything – or really a whole very much – about him, but I reckon Uncle Charlie was running away from something. From responsibility or war or – hell, I dunno, some girl – or whatever, but I reckon he just wanted to get away when he left. And you just want to get _to _something, and that's different."

Louis opened his mouth, looking skeptical and decidedly _un_-reassured, but Dominique clapped his shoulder, forestalling him.

"Make it different, okay, Lou?" Dominique turned, heading for the house glowing warmly up on the cliffs above them. As she reached the wall and climbed over it, she added over her shoulder, with the barest trace of a smirk on her face, "And no matter what, at least the beach'll always be here for you."

**A/N: Ah, longer than intended. But Louis and Dominique make me smile. And where else could this little word go? Well, I suppose the Hogwarts lake shore… anyway, reviews are wonderfully lovely. Hope you enjoyed! I promise, I'll eventually get around to the other next gen….**


	93. April 29

_Ensconce__: to settle securely or snugly._

**April 29, 1981**

A light flicked on in the upstairs window of a small cottage. Although the narrow lane was lined with similar squat little dwellings, although one or two other windows were lit, and the new light fell upon the road with a warm, jewel-bright glow, not a soul would notice a thing. To most of the street, that little cottage with its quaint fence running along the edge of the small yard and the tulips blooming in the window box didn't exist.

And the people living there prayed that it stayed that way.

A baby's loud, indignant cry broke the sleepy silence. It was the second time that night, and it was the fourth night in a row. Lily had already begun to roll out of bed, long red hair in her face and her eyes not even open yet, but her husband lay a hand on her arm, and that was all the persuasion she needed to fall back into her warm nest of blankets.

James had been awake anyway, staring listlessly out the window, trying not to think but increasingly devoid of distraction these days. Dumbledore had all but confined them to house arrest lately. It had been weeks since he'd been permitted to do anything for the Order.

He crossed the small hallway in two steps and pushed open the door to the nursery. At once the lamp in the corner illuminated the cheerful yellow walls, furniture stenciled with stars and jungle animals and teddy bears.

"Hey, little man," he murmured, approaching the crib near the window and reaching down to scoop up the bundle of wriggle blue blanket inside. "There we go."

With barely even a thought, he settled his son against his shoulder, rocking a little to quiet him. He sat down in the rocking chair in the corner, shifting the baby to the crook of his arm as his wails tapered into whimpers. James rocked slowly back and forth, gazing sleepily down at his son. A year ago, this natural routine would have seemed entirely alien. But now it transpired with little conscious thought.

Harry curled against James's chest, a little hand splayed against James's abdomen, but he seemed completely uninterested in being lulled back to sleep. He stared back at James with those wide green eyes, cooing now and then to break the silence, and experimentally poking his tiny pink tongue between puckered lips.

Everybody saw James when they looked at Harry. James himself saw it, too, of course. In the shock of black hair, the already-somewhat-crooked smile. But James, being rather more familiar with his own face, he reflected, saw Lily every time he looked at their son. Not just in the bright, curious green eyes that followed his every move, but there was something about the nose, the soft, pale skin, the expressions his son often gave him. It was all Lily.

He smiled at the nonsense Harry was babbling, and adjusted the blankets more snuggly around him, tucking him tighter in his arms. A little hand fluttered up to seize a button on his shirt.

He wouldn't have understood it a year ago, wouldn't have even _guessed _it two years ago, but he fit in that old rocking chair with that warm little body pressed against his chest. There were few other places he was more content.

**A/N: This word conjured up 'baby' for me. And everybody writes about Lily and Harry (well, how could you not as they are such a tragically powerful pair), and very nearly did myself because I love them, but I've been on a bit of a marauders kick lately and got to thinking about James and his son, and well, this happened. Hope you liked it! :)**


	94. April 30

_Aphotic__: Lightless; dark._

**April 30, 1998**

They could see nothing. The Room of Requirement felt huge even in the pitch darkness, whispers sometimes echoed up to the raftered ceiling, the occasional dim movement in the passage as people came or went from the nightly watch came from the corner, but there was no light at all with which to see.

Neville didn't need it though. He lay in his hammock beneath the haphazard pile of sheets, staring sightlessly at the wooden planks above his head and he could see the whole room.

It had started as one small, cozy hole-in-the-wall sort of place, a haven he had thought of only as he had hurtled around a seventh floor corridor, one of the Carrows roaring about blood traitors at the base of a stairwell, hindered by the heavy white bust of Gregory the Smarmy across his chest. It had, he had reflected later, lying on a sleeping bag with his eyes fixed intently on the locked door just in case, been a stroke of genius he would not have expected of himself before that term.

And in the ensuing weeks, it had rapidly filled as more and more people, with the knowledge that there was an escape, grew bold enough to need it. How the room was cavernous compared to that tiny modest bunking space Neville had first found. There were easily twenty students – boys and girls, most upperclassmen, but not all – sharing the high-ceilinged, paneled room. Hammocks of every color, were strung from the ceiling and from a wooden platform running along the outer edge with ladders, ropes, and even a slide courtesy of Sally-Anne Perks (who turned out to be quite a riot once you got her going) as means of moving from one level to the other. Tapestries depicting three of the four Hogwarts Houses decorated the wooden walls, a few card tables and a Muggle game called foosball (thanks to half-bloods Terry Boot and Seamus Finnigan) had materialized in the middle of the room, and a lavender-scented bathroom sprouted from the back wall.

All of this Neville could see despite the complete lack of any illumination whatsoever. He knew this room so well, he thought it was about time he bought a ring and popped the question. Look at that. He was even being facetious now.

But the point was there was no need for light. In fact, there was a very good reason for the rule banning wandlight past eleven o'clock. The thing about living in one room with twenty other people every hour of every day was that they literally were required to do next to everything together, whether they wanted to or not. If one person fancied reading late into the hours of the morning, the rest of the room would be forced to stay awake by that one spot of blinding light. Thus the lights-out rule.

But there were other ways to see in the dark, Neville thought. The soft creaking came from Micheal Corner's hammock across the way. The consequences he'd suffered for freeing that first year kept him up late into the night still, whatever healing spells Susan Bones tried to cast for him. The hitching breath from a few hammocks down was Parvati. She cried a lot these days, but by morning all evidence of tears (or even the ability for her to produce tears) had vanished. The snoring from the Hammock directly above Neville was Seamus. After the past seven years, he only noticed when he _didn't _hear it. Seamus was technically supposed to be on guard tonight, but he'd taken over for Natalie McDonald, a fourth year who had only recently found out her brother had been disappeared in London.

Neville could smell Padma Patil's watercolor painting hung out to dry in the Hammock beside his own, the lingering scent of vanilla from the candle Hannah Abbott lit for her mother before she went to sleep each night. He felt his hammock sway as Stephen Cornfoot silently paced the planks above him, probably worrying about his sister in Ravenclaw who had refused to drop out of classes to join him here.

Neville didn't need the light to see. There were other ways of knowing you were not alone in the darkness.

**A/N: As we approach the infamous May 2****nd****, I thought I'd get one last good shot of the DA's side of things. It will be September before I can really write them again. Except when I go back to fill in my holes… I really need to do that. But on the plus side, I finally have a whole entire month completed without a single missing day! Yay April! :) And we even got some under-developed characters mentioned here. How about that. **

**I meant to do this last chapter, but THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has reviewed! You are amazing people! I can't believe we've already broken 400 reviews for this story! Highest on my profile :) Of course with 91 chapters that averages around 4 a chapter, but that in itself is impressive considering the frequency of updates. Thank you all! **


	95. May 1

_Ort__: a scrap or morsel of food left at a meal._

**May 1, 1998**

When the sun set on May first, it could never have imagined the scene that would great it the next time its rosy fingers caressed the earth. It went down in its familiar blaze of orange and deep pink and red just as families gathered around dinner tables and owls delivered evening papers emblazoned with a story so outrageous it caused ripples even in the war torn world where most had had quite enough of news at all.

Harry Potter, after nine long months of near-total silence, had suddenly erupted – quite literally – into the wizarding world. On the back of a Gringotts dragon no less. Having _robbed _Gringotts. It was quite sensational.

One bite of apple tart remained on Arthur Weasley's plate, but he had quite forgotten about it. For the past several seconds he had been able to do nothing but gape incredulously at the front page of the newspaper he had just unfurled.

"Dad?" Fred asked impatiently, leaning forward to snag the last of his father's desert. George, who had been eyeing the very same morsel, dug an elbow into his brother's side, and Fred responded with a characteristic smirk.

"What's going on?" Ginny demanded, rolling her eyes at her brothers' easy distraction from the matter at hand.

Molly slowly put down her goblet of pumpkin juice as her husband met her eyes. Arthur lay the paper on the table for the others to see. George nearly choked on the butterbear he was swallowing.

"I would wager to say _something_, Ginny," Arthur murmured just as the last rays of sun slipped out of Muriel Prewett's dining room.

As their parents gazed at one another, a look passed between Ginny and her brothers. For the first time in a month, they looked their twenty years. And maybe the fact that Ginny hardly looked sixteen in that moment had something to do with their relenting when she insisted on coming with them a few hours later.

And from that moment on, they could all feel it building.

**A/N: I very much want to do May 2, 1998, but I have yet to figure out how to do it…. Anyway, I rather wanted this to be longer, maybe look at other people having their 'last meal' so to speak, but it's late, I'm sick, and I just took a five hour AP English exam today in which I wrote three essays in as many hours, so I have had quite enough of writing for today. I hope I managed to pull this bit off. Reviews are recovery medication for AP exams. **


	96. May 2

_Kismet__: Destiny; fate._

**May 2, 1998**

The sunset cast a fiery light once more over the grounds. Harry stopped where he was, halfway between the lake and the castle, feeling the light on his face, the breeze in his hair. Spots of light reflecting off the water danced blindingly in his eyes, and he could smell smoke in the air. If he squinted, seeing everything in that burnished glow, it was like he was back in that moment of dawn. The déjà vu swelled up suddenly, feeling like an undertow trapping him back in that second, and he snapped his eyes open lest he be stuck there forever.

He took a deep breath and moved on, heading back for the half-crumbled front steps. All the casualties had been collected, but Harry still saw bodies among the heaps of rubble. His breath came unevenly.

"Thought you were passed out upstairs."

The voice made Harry jump because he'd been walking with his eyes nearly closed and hadn't seen the figure huddled on the bottom step. Neville looked up at him, pale and much younger-looking than he had been that morning. The Sword of Gryffindor glittered beside him. Harry shrugged at him.

"Something I had to do."

"There always is."

Harry thought there might have been bitterness in Neville's voice. He looked down at the ground, hands in his pockets. He felt like he should apologize, but he could feel the place where the killing curse had hit aching with each breath and thought that should be enough. Or maybe that was exactly what Neville was bitter about.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, and it wasn't exactly an apology so much as a fact.

He dropped heavily to the step beside Neville.

"You fixed the grave," Neville said, eyes wandering across the grounds in the direction Harry had come from. "I saw it before the battle started, Dumbledore's grave. It was cracked. It's not anymore."

Harry nodded. He didn't mention that he'd replaced the elder wand, nor that he'd been sick after he'd fixed the marble. He could feel the ice cold softness of the hands he'd slipped the wand into and felt the urge to be sick again, but there was nothing left to come up.

"Where were you all this year?" Neville asked, still gazing into the distance.

"Can't tell you," Harry said tiredly.

"Figured," Neville muttered, and there was definitely bitterness there.

Harry thought about protesting, about saying it wasn't about trust or Dumbledore's orders or keeping secrets. It was that he really didn't know where he'd been or what he'd been doing. It was that he was too exhausted to relive it all right now, and Neville wouldn't want to hear it anyway. But he couldn't even muster up the energy for that.

"Did you know you were giving yourself up when you saw me?" Neville asked. Harry just nodded. "Figured." There was silence, then, "If you were just going to hand yourself over anyway, why did you wait until half of us were dead?" The words rushed out into a choked-off sob, but the look Neville had turned on him was sharp and accusing. Harry could see the ghosts of all the people Neville had risked his neck to protect all year only to see their bodies pile up in the Great Hall.

"I didn't know I had to give myself up," Harry tried to explain, choking himself on the defense he didn't believe. "I didn't know anything," he added, and his own ghosts rose up around him.

Neville didn't say anything for a long time. But then – "It wasn't your fault."

"Do you really believe that?" Harry asked, rocking forward to hug his knees.

"I guess I do," Neville sighed after a moment. "We put too much on your shoulders. I did. When it got really terrible, and it seemed like there was nothing we could do, I'd just tell myself everything would be okay in the end because you'd save us. It wasn't fair, and it's not your fault you couldn't save us all. It was just… fate."

"No."

Neville looked around at the vehemence that had suddenly suffused Harry's previously lethargic voice. "No what? Harry, I was there. If I couldn't, if McGonagall couldn't, if Kingsley and Lupin and everyone else couldn't stop all of that, how could you have?"

But Harry kept shaking his head. "No, it wasn't fate," he said. He was thinking of the prophecy, of how he'd come to realize that it was not his destiny that drove him forward to finish this fight, and what had happened in the Great Hall was not a fulfillment of his fate.

"Fate's a copout. Nothing ever happens because it's _meant _to. People just say that because it makes them feel better, entitled to the good things and blameless for the bad. But those kids – people – weren't born to die. Their lives were leading somewhere else. Good or bad, they weren't meant to be wasted here. They _chose _to stay because they were brave or martyrs or just wanted this to end, I don't know. They're dead because of choices they made and choices the rest of us made, but it's an insult to say this was all they were ever headed towards."

Neville just stared at him, at the sudden ferocity that was melting out of him as quickly as it had come.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "They weren't meant to end here."

And somehow, it seemed, that was enough to dissolve the bitterness. They sat side by side and watched the sun set over the battlefield, knowing they were mourning the same things.

**A/N: Um… hi. Not quite fall break yet, but I've finally come to a strange lull in my workload, and I thought I'd be productive. This isn't the 2012 word of the day for May 2, it's the 2000 one, but this year's word have produced a shallow angle on this rather important date. Any other day I would have loved to use it, but not for May 2. **

**I was also partially inspired to write this by 'Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness'. It's a well-written story, so full of raw emotion it will reduce even the strongest to a blubbering heap, and powerful enough to your writing ego down a notch because it's so well-constructed, but it's… not realistic. I take issue with the way it portrays Hogwarts and Neville in that time, as well as how Harry comes off in it, but I won't bore you with the long and impassioned argument I bored my friends with. I mean, if you're interested, I could send it to you (it turned into a 4,000 + word email to my friend), but you probably aren't. Just thought I'd sort of let you know where the motivation for this came from. **

**You know, I sometimes wonder if half the word count for this story is me blogging in my A/N's, mostly about why I suck at updating. Sorry about that. I'll try to stop. Thanks for reading if you stuck with me this long! Fall Break's a couple weeks away and I'll be swamped until then, but maybe I'll get a couple more chapters out after that. Reviews are GREATLY appreciated! Please? If I could get 1,000 before the end of the year, that would be amazing, you know, in case the whole 2012 thing is real…. Blogging again, sorry :/ **


	97. May 3

_Numen__: divine power, especially one who inhabits a particular object._

**May 3, 1974**

"Oi, Moony, Wait up!"

"No, you can't have a look at my notes, Black," Remus said wearily, stopping at the top of the spiral staircase and turning to meet his friends.

"I'm hurt," Sirius told him in a fake-wounded voice, shaking his head. "You think we only seek out your company to use you."

"I think you only seek out my company to use me ten minutes before an exam," Remus corrected. "Particularly when you all studied by seeing how many Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans you could cram into Peter's mouth."

"We reached a new record," said James indignantly. Peter winced, sucking on his chapped lips.

Remus rolled his eyes. "Well I'm not helping you cram last minute. If you want to use my notes, study with me the night before."

"It's _divination_," James reminded him, rolling his own eyes at the ceiling. "How do you _even _study for that? Besides, we've got it covered. Show 'im, Petey."

Peter rummaged around in his bag and produced a shiny, black plastic ball about the size of his hand. He offered it to Remus, who raised his eyebrows at their looks of self-satisfaction.

"And what exactly is that supposed to do for you?" he asked.

"A demonstration, then," James said regally, plucking the plastic ball out of Peter's hands. He flipped it so a painted number 8 faced Remus, closed his eyes and began shaking it. "Will Sirius, Peter, and I pass our exam today?" He opened his eyes and looked down. "'Definitely'. See, Remus, the fates have spoken."

"Oh, come on. Is that the thing Peter's brother sent him for Christmas? A toy made for six-year-olds?" Remus demanded incredulously.

"Six _and up_," Sirius amended in an offended tone.

"You aren't seriously going to use that on your exam."

"Why shouldn't we? If a pack of playing cards can tell the future, a magic eight ball certainly can. At least it has _magic _in the name. Besides, Professor Fey will love it."

Sirius grabbed the eight ball from James and began shaking it up, too. "Will Professor Fey love our creativity? ... 'Absolutely.'"

"Am I friends with a bunch of idiots?" Remus asked sarcastically, turning to keep moving up the stairs.

Sirius followed, shaking up the ball. "'Probably.' Oh look at that, it has a sense of humor. It must be channeling the fates."

"You're going to get thrown out of the exam," Remus warned in a board voice.

"Will we ever start listening to Remus?" James asked.

"Ooo, outlook not good," Sirius reported.

**A/N: Right, so there's some Marauders for Louey06. Hope you like it! So sorry It's taken me four and half months to get it to you! But yay for two consecutive updates! Love you all!**


	98. May 4

_Fulcrum__: the support or point of rest, on which a lever turns._

**May 4, 2000**

Two foaming mugs of butterbeer thudded against the table, sloshing amber waves onto the sticky wood.

"So what are we drinking to, tonight?" Ron asked, taking a hearty gulp.

Harry mimicked him. He wiped the foam from his lip with a knuckle and stared broodily down into the swirling depths of his drink. "Shepherd suspended me," he muttered at last.

Ron choked on his second swig, spraying butterbeer all over the floor. Gasping, he stared at Harry in horror and incredulity. "She does know your _name_ doesn't she?"

Harry's lips twitched in a grim half-smile. "Yeah, and she's never given a damn. She goes by what people do, you've got to give her that."

"So having 'defeater of the most powerful dark wizard in a century' on your resume doesn't impress her?" Ron demanded. "What the hell is she suspending you for, anyway? That thing in Cornwall? That's hippogriff shit, that is."

He rose half-rose out of his seat as if he intended to march back into the Auror office and confront Eleanor Shepherd right then, but Harry shook his head. "No. I mean, I broke protocol for the second time. For anybody else it'd be a strike."

"Yeah, well, their protocol's –"

Harry smirked into his mug in spite of himself as Ron went on and a couple of women at the next table gave them scandalized looks. "It's just the worst timing," he interrupted eventually. He would have liked to hear what Ron thought Eleanor Shepherd could do with her rule book, but the women were looking around for the owner of the pub, now. "You know, with the wedding and everything."

"Well, those arseholes in MLE called us into an emergency situation on May the bloody second. What sort of state did they _think_ they were going to get us in?" Ron grumbled. "Look, mate, this is total shit. I was there. I'll give testimony in court room ten if I have to. Merlin's saggy –"

"It's fine, Ron," Harry sighed, setting down his empty tankard and signaling for another.

"It's bloody well not _fine_."

"Shepherd doesn't need any more bad press for not booking me when she ought to."

Ron muttered darkly under his breath, and Harry found himself grinning again.

"Blimey, I haven't seen you this outraged on my behalf since the Minister burnt a hole through my shirt."

Ron rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his chair and drained the last mouthful of his drink. "Yeah, yeah, clearly I'm blinded by affection." He kicked Harry's shin under the table. "But seriously, are you really just gonna sit back and take it?"

Harry shrugged. "S'pose I can bite the bullet this time and let Shepherd get her show in. She'll have it out of her system, then. But, uh, thanks. I appreciate the support."

Ron punched him consolingly on the shoulder. "One day we'll be running the place and then we can tell those codgey, old bureaucrats they can –"

Harry shook his head as Ron steam-rollered on, driving away the sick feeling from his disciplinary meeting just an hour before. Five minutes later, the women beside them had gotten a hold of the manager and they'd been asked to leave. As they pushed their way out of the crowded pub, Harry flung an arm over Ron's shoulder.

"You're good to keep around, mate."

"Aw, shove off."

"Yeah, you too."

**A/N: So… it's technically past midnight, but I'm counting it as the 16****th****. I'm very tired. I apologize if the ending deteriorated. I feel like Ron functions as Harry's fulcrum in a lot of ways, the steady support behind his force. I have a hard time capturing their friendship although it is one of my favorites ever. Well, drop me a line or something if you feel like it. Love you all! **


	99. May 5

_Besot__: to infatuate, obsess._

**May 5, 1925**

He was… everything. To Merope Gaunt, this tall, pale, dark-haired young man was far more than _just _rich or _just _handsome or _just _anything at all. He made the stars shine and the day break. He was her savior, the one who had given her the courage to break free, her first and only glimpse of a life that was not ugly.

She perched on the edge of the mattress, watching the early light play over his chiseled features. He looked younger asleep, hardly more than a boy. And his peaceful expression was natural. There was no drugged lilt to him like this. She could almost imagine that he would wake and be glad to find himself here. Perhaps… perhaps he would.

She pushed her fingers along the striped pattern of her dress over her abdomen. Surely – _surely _– life could not be made on illusion alone. Surely miracles did not come about accidentally. She had never given him the chance to love her, so quick to assume he wouldn't. Her hand jumped to the locket still strung around her neck. It nested cold and clammy in the cup of her palm, the weight of her father's shame and derision. But he'd been wrong. Look at what she'd done; Look at where she was. He'd been wrong about her and _she'd _been wrong about her… so couldn't Tom have been wrong about her, too?

He stirred on the bed and she jumped. She watched his eyes flutter open, clear and alert and looking at her – just her the way she was. Her heart hammered. She let the confusion swim across his face, let him prop himself up on his elbows and stare around the room. And then his gaze fixed back on her and he opened his mouth –

She couldn't do it. Almost involuntarily, she raised the little beaker to his mouth and tipped a few drops over his lips. The change was instantaneous. A purplish haze infused his dark irises, a haze came over his expression, a vague, hapless smile drooped so out of place on his aristocratic lips.

"Thank you, love," he said, leaning up to kiss her cheek. "I really don't know what I'd do without you nursing me. You're too good to me."

She smiled ruefully, letting her hands fall limply into her lap. Someday soon, she would do it. Someday soon, she would stop being afraid of herself because this child deserved true happiness, not just a simulation.

**A/N: I've known this word would fall to Marope Gaunt for months now. Had to get a little obscure. Sorry. Review and tell me who you like to hear about and I'll try to get back round to them! :) I think it was Amy who wanted to see Harry and Dudley's families together? Right, well, love you all. **


	100. May 6

_Mensch__: a decent, upright, mature, and responsible person. _

**May 6, 1993**

"Ernie?"

The tentative voice edged its way around the circular dormitory door left ajar to let out the uneasy quiet that had descended upon the castle lately. Ernie Macmillan glanced up from the long roll of notes he was diligently copying.

"Come on back, Hannah," he called, and a moment later Hannah Abbott appeared in the doorway, pushing her blond pigtails out of her face.

"Cedric Diggory is going to take me and Susan and the others down to the lake for a bit. Did you want to come along?" she asked. "It might be fun."

Ernie shook his head, carefully replacing his quill in the inkpot and blowing on the last lines to dry them. "No thanks. There's something I've got to do."

Hannah came over to lean against his desk. "Is that all herbology notes?" she marveled, measuring the thick scroll with her fingers.

"Just form last week," Ernie told her, unable to completely disguise the pride in his voice.

"Wow. That's pretty detailed even for you. How come you're copying them?"

Ernie began to carefully roll up the freshly written scroll. "When Justin wakes up, he'll have a lot of catching up to do."

Hannah noticed the catch in his voice, but she was probably one of the few people who would have. She looked over at the bed that belonged to Justin. After almost six months, it should have been thick with dust, but someone must be keeping it tidy. There was a feather duster lying beside Ernie's alarm clock.

"I'd better get going," Hannah said, pushing off from the desk. "They'll be waiting for me. Are you sure you don't want to come? It might… take your mind off it."

Ernie shook his head again. "Can't. I promised Madam Pomfrey I'd help her clean out potion bottles. It's the only way she'll let me in. But Hannah… you'll be careful, you and Susan?"

"We're pureblood," Hannah reminded him.

He shrugged. "All the same…."

Hannah glanced at the feather duster. "We'll be like ninjas," she said, striking a karate pose. Ernie cracked a smile, and Hannah turned to go, satisfied. "You too, though," she added over her shoulder, pausing at the door. "Be careful wondering around on your own?"

Ernie nodded, and she left.

XxX

"Hey, Justin," Ernie murmured, slipping between the curtains around his friend's bed.

Of course Justin didn't move. Not a muscle twitched, no matter how closely Ernie watched. He moved around to the chair beside the bed and added his latest set of scrolls to the teetering stack already piled on it.

"Hermione Granger got attacked a couple weeks ago," Ernie said, even though Madam Pomfrey had told him a hundred times Justin couldn't hear him. "Guess Potter isn't to blame after all," he added after a moment, fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. "I apologized to him, you know. Figured it was the right thing to do. He's a good enough bloke, I reckon. Bit weird, him and Weasley are, talking about following something. We didn't see anything out the window, but Potter seemed to."

He stood a bit longer at the foot of Justin's bed, but there was no movement, no indication that Justin even knew he had a visitor.

"I've just been trying to do the right thing, you know," he said abruptly. "Since I sent you back to our dorm alone. Should have went with you. I'm sorry about that."

Ernie nodded a couple of times, swinging his arms backward and forward, but Justin didn't stir, so he turned and went to help Madam Pomfrey.

**A/N: There's an old date, huh? Told you I'd fill it in eventually. Some Hufflepuff for you :) This was another one of those ideas I meant for Small Gestures. I think this story will swallow all of those, which is okay by me. Two birds with one stone, right? Hope you enjoyed and don't forget to review! :)**


	101. May 7

_Sudorific__: causing sweat._

**May 7, 2025**

There was a baby screaming somewhere. James groaned and pulled the pillow over his ringing head. Couldn't somebody shove a bottle in the kid's mouth or cast a silencing charm on him or call bloody child services already? His whole body throbbed and he couldn't for the life of him recall _why _at the moment. There was pounding coming from somewhere and it took James a moment to realize it wasn't inside his own skull.

"Teddy, door!" He recognized Victoire's harried voice and felt stupid for not figuring he was in their flat. Who else did he know with a baby?

James groaned again and blearily opened his eyes, hissing when light creeping around the windows stabbed like daggers into his retinas. He sat up and gagged a little at the stench rolling off his clothes. Although alcohol, cigars, and the wharf were excellent things of an evening, they did not keep well in your clothes overnight, and there was something else mixed in there he'd rather not identify. He took a breath through his mouth and looked around.

He was in John's nursery, tangled in a heap of sheets on the floor. Stars winked down at him from the ceiling, the alphabet swam around him on the soft, blue wallpaper, and a herd of stuffed animals watched him from the dresser with wide, innocent eyes. He squinted in confusion.

"Teddy!" Victoire yelled as the pounding on the door came again, louder, more urgent. John shrieked with renewed fervor.

"I'm coming," he heard Teddy's voice grumble, then the sound of the front door opening.

"Where is he?"

James's insides seemed to freeze solid. That was his father's voice, panicked now, but it wouldn't be for long. Memory of the night before came crashing down on him in a confused jumble, too light, too dark, like a horror strip he couldn't look away from. He broke out into a cold sweat. Merlin, his father was going to _kill _him.

"He's fine," Teddy was saying reassuringly. "I picked him up at around three this morning. He'd just had a bit too much to drink and he was smart enough not to try to apparate like that. We looked after him and put him in the baby's room to sleep it off. I just checked on him and I expect he'll be dead to the world for quite a bit longer, but he's fine."

James closed his eyes, sending a silent praryer of thanks that he had Teddy as a godbrother.

"And the vandalism at Singer's Port?" Harry asked, proving he'd earned the gold title on his door at the Auror office. James's stomach sank right through the floor. _Valiant run, Ted, but best get off this ship before it goes down flaming. _

"Oh, that? Heard about it, did you? I was coming back from that when I got James's patronus. A couple of drunken idiots. Disappeared when they saw me, but the bar made reckons one of them was her ex. I'll look into it first thing Monday morning."

"Are you sure one of those drunken idiots wasn't my son?" Harry was right outside the door now. James could practically feel his disbelief and ire seeping through the seam. The doorknob turned and James hit the pillow, drawing the blankets right up over his head as if they were his brother's invisibility cloak.

"Of course I'm sure," Teddy said hastily, and the doorknob stopped turning. "What grudge has James got with Singer's Port? And anyway, if I'd found him at a crime scene, I'd be so pissed off, I'd drag him to your doorstep by the ear."

The door cracked open enough for a strip of light to fall across the rug. James lay very still, a cowering rabbit playing dead to win a few more minutes of peace.

"Don't tell me you never got a little more pissed than you meant to when you were twenty," Teddy said softly.

The door shut and James let out his breath in a whoosh.

"S'pose I should go let Fred know everything's okay," Harry said in a gentler voice. "He was in a right state when James wasn't back at the flat this morning. I'll be back for him after that, awake or not. He deserves a rude awakening for not at least sending a message."

There were footsteps, some more mumbled words, then the door. James focused on breathing very slowly. He could not believe he'd come that close to the chopping block and gotten away without a scratch. This was probably going to cost him six months of babysitting, but he'd take it over whatever would've happened to him if Teddy hadn't been on call last night.

The door to the nursery flew open and James jerked upright, groaning as his head swam. Teddy gave an unsympathetic chuckle. He let the door slam behind him with a noise that echoed painfully off James's eardrums. James curled into a ball and pulled the sheets back over his head. Teddy gave him a shove with his foot.

"Come on, get up. I want to talk to you."

Very reluctantly, James dragged himself into a sitting position and leaned against John's cot. He looked up at Teddy with baleful eyes. Teddy crossed his arms and stared back, an unimpressed look on his face.

"I owe you," James told him meekly.

"Damn right, you owe me," Teddy growled. "James, I bent the law so far for you, it might actually have broken. If either of those blokes get hauled in and name you, I could get in serious trouble. I could lose my job!"

James hung his head. "'m sorry."

"Goddamnit, James!" Teddy slammed his hand down on the dresser, making James wince. "That was stupid. That was the stupidest thing you've ever done, and that's saying something!"

James flinched. That last one was a low blow, but Teddy wasn't done.

"Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?" he demanded, stepping forward and stooping to a knee so that he was right in James's face. "Getting sodding drunk and going off with a couple of strangers – for Merlin's sake, they could have killed you for all you knew! You're Harry Potter's son. What the _hell _were you thinking?"

His hand came up to grip James's collar, force him to meet his gaze. The pub, the two young men he'd met riling themselves up for a fight, the wharf, it all was blurring together in a haze that left a bitter, sick taste in his mouth. He pushed Teddy's hands away.

Teddy stood and began pacing the small room from window to door.

"That's not to mention the legal trouble you could have been in. Some lucky star must have been shining down on you last night for what reason I really can't see. You could've ended up in Azkaban for twenty-one days awaiting a hearing. How's your dad supposed to come into work and lead an investigation when he can't even keep his own son in line? I just – ughgh, what if you'd wandered off the docks in a drunken stupor and drowned? What if some Muggle lowlife had come at you with a knife? Anything could have happened to you, Jamie!"

It was the use of that nickname that brought home exactly what he'd done. James could get over people being disappointed in him. He could get over being in hot water for pushing the envelope just a little too far. And now he understood why Teddy _hadn't _thrown him straight to his dad. James had scared him, badly, and he was sparing Harry and Ginny from that. And causing that kind of fear James wasn't sure he could get over so easily.

**A/N: This is connected to something slightly bigger than James just being a wild child. He has his reasons. No one ever said they were good reasons, he's got them. Long to make up for my recent short ones. Hope you enjoyed and thank you for all your suggestions! I always like to hear what you like to read. Love you all!**


	102. May 8

_Pother__: a heated discussion, debate, or argument; fuss; to-do._

**May 8, 1996**

"Would you shut up already, Moony? It's not as if I broke the law or anything." Sirius gave a sharp bark of laughter as he threw himself into a chair at the end of the long table in the basement of Grimmauld Place, but very quickly a scowl rolled over his face once more.

"_There_ you are," Tonks exclaimed, jumping up from the chair she'd pulled up next to the fire and nearly setting it aflame. "I wandered through half the house looking for you. I was starting to worry something had eaten you."

"He was outside," Remus told her, coming in behind Sirius with a dark look on his face. "Frolicking around the square."

"_Frolicking_? I don't _frolic, _Remus."

"You were outside?" Tonks gaped. "But Sirius –"

"I know, I know," he snapped before she could even say anything. "Moony's already lecturing me. But you know what? You can both go jump in the Thames."

"Sirius, if you were seen, you could be back in Azkaban for the evening meal," Remus told him severely, yanking out a chair next to him and dropping into it.

Sirius gave another bark of laughter. "Dementors haven't found this place yet."

"Do you want them to? Because all you've got to do is keep sticking your nose out the front door and not only the Ministry, but Voldemort and all the Death Eaters will know exactly where to find you _and _the Order."

"Do you know how many big black dogs there are in London?" Sirius demanded.

"You've got markings, Sirius," Remus reminded him. "Lucius Malfoy recognized you once already."

"Because I was with you lot and Harry in the middle of packed train platform. He wouldn't know it was me if I was at his throat."

Tonks was watching them, biting her lip, but now she came around the table to join them. "Look, Sirius, Dumbledore's no fool, whatever the papers say. He wouldn't tell you to stay inside if it wasn't really important."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" Sirius snapped at her.

Tonks rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "This is my business."

They were both giving him that _look_, like they were about to ground him and take away his owl. And suddenly Sirius burst into loud peals of laughter that bounced of the dingy stone walls. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and howled. Remus and Tonks exchanged confused and nonplused looks. Tonks quirked an eyebrow. Maybe he really was cracking up.

"Would you mind letting us in on the joke?" Remus asked mildly.

That just set Sirius off again, holding his head in his hands as he laughed. The other two stood silently by, waiting for him to collect himself and occasionally exchanging exasperated glances.

"You two…" Sirius gasped at last, shaking his head and squinting at them. He muffled another snort when he was them standing there with matching expectant looks. "You two…"

"Yes?" Tonks asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius shook with silent mirth. They didn't even realize…. "Never mind. Mum, Dad, I'm going to my room to think about what I've done," he chortled. And he left them there blushing at each other.

There were moments where you could either shout or laugh, and it had been far too long since Sirius had picked laughter.


	103. May 9

_Cicatrix__: new tissue that forms over a wound._

**May 9, 1999**

Harry gently ran the pad of his thumb along the white crescent mark fading along Ginny's jaw.

"On the marble staircase," she murmured, pushing him backward onto soft new grass. Sunlight glowed in a fiery halo through her loose hair. "I didn't see who."

She turned his arm to expose the soft, smooth underside, touching the warped, blackened skin where Nagini's fangs had sunk into him.

"Godric's Hollow," he told her. "Voldemort's snake." He heard her sharp intake of breath, but she didn't ask.

He reached down to cup his hand around her bare calf, looking at the bright pink ribbon that spiraled from ankle to knee.

"The forest. Poisonous tree root," she grimaced.

Harry pulled her half on top of him, her weight pressing him into the soft, sweet-smelling earth. She hooked a finger under the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to expose a bit of angry scarlet. Harry's hands came up on either side of hers, undoing the buttons. She wove her hands between his, helping until she could pull his shirt open. She stared at the puckered, deep red oval burned over his heart as if blood were seeping through, the fading yellow and green of a year-old bruise that had darkened his chest from his collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage. He pressed her palm against the scarlet oval so that she could feel the thrust of his heartbeat. She brought her other hand up to trace the letters still carved white as bone into the back of his hand: _I must not tell lies._

"What happened in the forest?" she whispered.

She felt him wrap an arm around her waist, squeeze her close. "I saw the place where people go On."

"I don't understand."

He kissed her forehead. "A long, long time from now, you will."

"Did you die?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because I had to. There was no other way."

She tucked her head under his chin, and for a time they were silent. Then she felt his fingers trailing across her shoulder blades.

"The Paddock when I was ten. Fell off Ron's old broom into the gravel, and of course I couldn't let Mum find out what I'd been doing, so I never had her heal it."

Harry showed her the heels of his hands where jagged white lines ran like cracked glass, almost too light to see. "My aunt and uncle's staircase when I was eight. Got the bright idea to try to toboggan down it while my aunt ran to the store. Smashed into a lamp on the side table." He smirked as Ginny winced. "Had to get stitches on this one," he remembered, pointing to a line that reached almost to his index finger.

Ginny closed her eyes, looking faintly sick, and he chuckled and pulled her back against his chest. They fit like that, hot skin on hot skin. The scars were still there, but they didn't hurt anymore.

**A/N: I am boldly attempting to finish May before the end of this May. Hope to hear from you! Love you all. **


	104. May 10

_Obtest__: to supplicate earnestly; beseech. _

**May 10, 1978**

Gideon Prewett zipped the bulging rucksack closed and looked up at the now-empty room. Molly had wanted to get beds for them, but he and Fabian had refused. There was no money or space for extra furniture and they wouldn't be at the Burrow long enough to put them to good use anyway. He looked over at his brother shrinking his bedroll down to fit into his pocket.

"S'pose it's time," Fabian sighed, his heavy heart plane.

"We can't stay forever," Gideon said, more to himself than Fabian. "The longer we're here, the harder it will be to leave, and we _can't _stay. The Order needs us."

"I know," Fabian muttered. He swung his bulging rucksack on his back. Gideon did the same, and they headed for the narrow, winding stairs.

Their sister was waiting for them. The house was miraculously quiet. The babies must all be asleep and Bill and Charlie looking after themselves in the garden. Molly sat halfway down the first flight of stairs, folding a pile of small jumpers with her wand. She looked around when she heard their footsteps.

"Please," she said quietly, looking intently at them both. She was not teary or angry or anything, just calm. "I know I can't keep you here until this fighting is through," she said. "But can't you stay just a little bit longer?"

Fabian and Gideon exchanged looks.

"Molly," Fabian started, but the tremble in her lip stuck the words in his throat. She bit her lips to stop it and stared up at them beseechingly.

"We're outnumbered nearly three to one now," she said tremulously. "And the boys miss you terribly when you're gone so long."

"We miss them, too," Gideon said helplessly. "But Dumbledore needs us, Molly. We need to be doing something about all this. You understand."

Molly nodded and looked down at her lap, creasing a blue baby blanket with her fingers. "_I _need you, too," she whispered. "_Your nephews_ need you. Just a little bit longer. Please?"

Gideon and Fabian could not find the words to tell her no, and for a long moment they stood six steps above her, locked in her gaze. Then a door banged below and there was a call of "Uncle Fabian! Come and look! Come and look!" Three loud wails rose up simultaneously from the doors on either side. Molly had jumped at the noise and her basket of freshly folded clothes went toppling down the zigzagging stairs. A loud _ribbit _sounded from the kitchen.

Molly looked back up at them and now her eyes were swimming. "Please stay. Please."

And what else could they do?

**A/N: I've been working on **_**21 Years Earlier **_**lately. This would be a missing moment from the next chapter if you're interested. I'm only six months into it, though, so it might be a while. Anyway, love hearing from all of you! **


	105. May 11

_Sibilant__: hissing._

**May 11, 1976**

"Snape!"

Severus looked around. Mulciber and Avery had just appeared at the top of the stairs from the dungeons, long black cloaks pinned at their throats even though sweet, early-summer air was drifting through the open front doors. Avery was looking bored, but Mulciber watched him from across the crowded entrance hall with a sharp look in his dark eyes. He jerked his head toward the marble staircase, indicating that it was time to head toward their classes.

They were waiting for him. They wanted his company. He had often walked with them in the halls and sat with them at meals and in the common room, but never before had Mulciber called him over. As if Severus were a necessary fixture in their group.

"Suppose that's my cue," Lily said lightly, pushing herself off the wall she'd been leaning against while they'd been talking. They were going to the same Charms class, whereas Mulciber and Avery were older, headed toward N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts on the other side of the castle. But it wasn't the destination that was priority.

"I'll talk to you later," he told her quietly, feeling the familiar disappointment mingling with his excitement as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, already starting melt into the rush of students.

"Sure." She flashed a smile at him. "But Sev…" she grabbed his wrist as he made to cross the hall so he wouldn't have to watch her leave. She bit her lip. "Be careful."

"They're not going to do anything –"

"I'm more worried about what they say, what they're always hissing in your ear. Make sure what you think is from your own mind, yeah?"

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend his friends, maybe himself, but she had already turned and he was watching her walk away.

"She corner you again?" Avery drawled, coming up behind him. "I'd report her to Old Sluggy for harassment if I were you. A filthy Mudblood like that stalking me? Or maybe I'd put it to good use and just lead her down some dark corridor sometime."

"Be quiet, Avery," Mulciber cut in, rolling his eyes as he strode toward the staircase. Severus hurried to keep up as that little, snot-nosed Black materialized out of the crowd as if he, a scrawny, smooth-cheeked fourth year, belonged with them. "She's Severus's to do what he likes with."

See? Lily just didn't know them like he did. Avery was an arse, for certain, but Mulciber had his back. Mulciber didn't judge who Severus hung round with. He wished he could say the same for Lily.

**A/N: Maybe similar to some stuff I've already done, but it just seemed to fit. I very much wanted to make this a James and Sirius chapter since I read the amazing, wonderful, fantastic 'Anatomy of a Bromance" (that can be found on my favorites) and was in that sort of mood, but the word begged this. Hope the story is still keeping you interested. I loved all your suggestions for characters. TFS, yours were especially interesting! I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you in ages! Your reviews make my day! Well, all of you guys make my day, really, just for bothering to see what I have to say. So, a long-overdue thank you to all of you fantastic readers! One word left for May! Whohoo! Any ideas for Prorogue: to differ or postpone?**


	106. May 12

_Prorogue__: to defer; postpone._

**May 12, 1998**

Harry didn't know why he kept coming back here. It should have been the worst place to be. It should have been filled with ghosts and nightmares and memories that dragged stole his breath. He had seen the scars, heard only a few stories of what had happened here all year, and that should be enough to make his stomach turn. But somehow the broken castle was still the haven it had always been for him. Even bloodied and barely standing, it was home.

He couldn't stay forever. He knew that. Perhaps he could come back for the seventh year he never had, though. There was already talk of that. Hermione, Dean, Justin, they'd all met with McGonogall already. Harry stared out across the deep green of the forest through a broken window. He wasn't even sure what part of the castle he was in. All he knew was that it was safely far away from anyone else. Maybe he could take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He'd already had some practice at that. McGonagall would understand. She would take him on even if he was young. He'd defeated Voldemort. Whose credentials could top that?

"Hey."

Harry jumped so badly he nearly fell out of the window. "What are you doing here?"

Ron shrugged, picking his way across the half-collapsed corridor to stand beside Harry's window. He made to lean against the wall, but thought better of it. "What d'you think? Mum wants you to come home."

Harry swallowed the words he wanted to say because Ron didn't look in a fit state to argue with. But the Burrow was not his home. He had moved his things back into Ron's attic bedroom four days ago, but he could not stay in the house. He had made excuses to get out, any excuse at all before the walls closed in on him and crushed him there. Maybe it was selfish, but he couldn't stand to see them all, to hear them all, every move they made. The Burrow may not have born the scars of battle, but it was haunted. He didn't want to go back there.

"You can't stay here forever," Ron told him tiredly.

"I could rent a room in the village," Harry said. He'd thought about that, too.

Ron let out a heavy breath. "Just come home. Mum and Dad have enough to deal with without worrying about you, too. Hermione can't sleep. You'll come back eventually. Why drive them all over the edge first?"

"I – it's not my house. I'm of age. I should get my own place."

"The rest of the world probably wouldn't believe how thick The-Boy-Who-Can't-Be-Killed or whatever it is they call you these days is. Oi!" Ron shouted over his shoulder.

There was a scraping of rock and tromping footsteps, and then four people came around the corner. Bill, Charlie, Percy, and even George, wound their way around the fallen rocks.

"It's not – I don't want –" Harry stammered, scrambling for another excuse.

"Come on, up you get," said Charlie, grabbing one of Harry's elbows. George took the other as Bill and Percy began clearing rocks away and Ron closed in behind.

"There's a difference between 'you've got nowhere else to stay' and 'you're not staying anywhere else," Bill told him.

And he didn't have an argument for that.

**A/N: Look at that, I came up with something on my own. Anyway, so that's May done. Next month to tackle: June. Thank you all!**


	107. May 13

_Matrilineal__: inheriting or determining decent through the female line._

**May 13, 1967**

"Jamie, please."

It wasn't really a scold. Grace Potter could rarely bring herself to scold her son. She would often set out meaning to, but somewhere mid-word an undercurrent of gentleness would warm her tone, her mouth would twitch just the slightest bit, softening the lines of her face, and her eyes would betray any façade of sternness.

Across the long, polished oak table, her son ceased scuffing the tiled floor with the toe of his shoe (in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the Hogwarts school song, although no one could quite agree on the specifics of that tune). He folded his arms on the table before him and dropped his chin onto them, very bored.

It was supposed to be a family gathering, but as his parents, aunts, and uncles were all around sixty, and the only cousin remotely close to his age was in his last year at Hogwarts, the meal and topics of conversation held absolutely no interest for a seven-year-old. But, as Uncle Crispin (who happened to be nearing his seventy-ninth birthday and wore very thick spectacles) reached for the sugar bowl, James's interest suddenly – and inexplicably – peaked.

The moment the delicate glass top was pulled away, something electric blue and very bright shot out of the heap of white granules, trailing sugar behind like fairy dust… which turned out to be quite fitting. As the jet of blue light ricocheted off the ceiling and spiraled a bit, dazed from the collision, each of the six rather stunned adults caught sight of the fine, pointed features and furiously fluttering wings of a fairy. She chattered angrily at them for a moment before proceeding to rocket around the dining room, knocking pictures askew and making the chandelier sway rather wildly, all the while coating everything in a sticky dusting of sugar.

"I'll say!" cried Aunt Dorea, patting her pile of graying hair and looking more than a little startled.

James, however, licked the sugar from his lips with an impish giggle and smiled angelically at the rest. His mother and father looked at one another.

"He gets it from you," Harold Potter accused his wife, fighting the amused grin that played around his mouth.

She swatted his arm, but as Grace Potter met her son's hazel eyes brimming with mirth, a reflection of her own, she could not refute the point.

**May 13, 1986**

"I won't!"

Ginny Weasley stomped her foot, her face red and scrunched up in a scowl. She stood on her bed, clad only in the stockings and satiny white slip her mother had left her in upon hearing Ron howling downstairs and her husband's hastened explanation shouted from the kitchen about climbing on cupboards and a bloody nose. And this was how Ginny's other three brothers were charged with the should-have-been-simple task of getting their sister dressed for their grandmother's dinner.

Or more precisely, this was how Percy, the trusted oldest in the house with his brothers off to school, was tasked with getting his sister into a dress. Most unfortunately, his parents had not yet learned that no nine-year-old should be made responsible for such a thing when Ginevra Molly Weasley was the sister in question.

"Gin, you _have _to," Percy told her earnestly, holding up the disputed garment with a pleading air.

Ginny looked at the explosion of pink taffeta, frills, and ribbons as if it were a freshly skinned deer hide her brother was trying to convince her to wear.

"I won't!" she insisted again, planting her hands fiercely on her hips. "And you can't make me!"

At this, Fred and George, who had been rummaging in Ginny's closet, listening amusedly to their brother's doomed attempts to follow his orders, looked around. Ginny caught the smirks on their faces and began to realize that challenging the twins was always the wrong way to go about things. As one, they vaulted over the bedframe and were on either side of Ginny (who was not only half their age, but also half their height) before she could even make a move for the door.

Ginny shrieked, but Fred had already wrapped the bed sheet around her like a straight jacket and George stuffed a pair of freshly folded socks in her mouth. Percy was too busy worrying that his brothers seemed to make good pirates to take his cue until George shouted at him to 'put the shackles on already!'. He hesitated only a moment longer before reflecting that this did seem to be the only way he would be able to do as his mother instructed.

The moment the fluffy pink dress closed over Ginny's head like a tent, all she could concentrate on was how furious she was and how very much she hated that explosion of pink taffeta… and then there _was _an explosion of pink taffeta.

The twins let go of her at once, jumping away with yells of shock. Percy actually tripped backwards and smacked his head painfully on the wardrobe behind him. Ginny however, stood calmly amid the streamers of pink fabric floating to the ground around her and (after a moment to realize what she'd done) let a satisfied smile cross her face.

"I won't wear it, and you can't make me," she said smugly, folding her arms across her chest.

A moment later the bedroom door burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley burst into the room, the latter with a rather battered-looking six-year-old on her hip. Ron's eyes widened at the site that met him in his little sister's room.

Molly gaped at the remains of the lovely dress she had purchased that morning for her daughter. Arthur, however, was smothering his amusement with only moderate success.

"What?" he chortled when his wife rounded on him. "She gets it from you."

And Molly Weasley, turning back to see the determined glint in her daughter's brown eyes, could not refute the point.

**May 13, 1994**

"Oh no!"

The sound of fabric ripping along the seam tore through the hurriedly emptying corridor. Hannah Abbott dropped to the ground, frantically scrabbling to collect the books, papers, quills, and ink jars that had spilled across the stone floor, dodging the straggling students who were by now charging to make it to their classes on time.

"I'll be late!" she muttered to no one in particular, anxiety making her voice squeak. "I'll be late for Transfiguration, and I've never been late to any class in three years! I'll get detention!"

She was practically wailing.

"Need some help?"

The poor girl looked up, brushing the blond hair out of her face, to find a rather bemused Harry Potter kneeling in front of her, trying to hand her a handful of inky homework assignments.

"Where're Ron and Hermione?" was the only thing she could think to say in her near-panicked state. The moment it slipped out of her mouth, Hannah blushed. "Sorry, I mean. Thanks, but won't you be late to your next class?"

Harry shrugged, grinning a little as if she'd said something funny. "I suppose you're right. I might start getting a reputation as a rule-breaker." But he kept helping her gather her rather-worse-for-wear school supplies. "I had to stay back to talk to Professor Lupin about something. So Ron and Hermione went on ahead," he elaborated on her curious look. "We aren't _physically _joined at the hip you know."

She laughed a little, but the anxiety over the whole late-to-class situation was still obvious in her voice. All of Hannah's things sufficiently stuffed in her ruined bag, the pair stood up.

"See you later, Hannah," said Harry with an amiable wave, turning in the direction of the Charms classroom.

"I hope Flitwick isn't too angry with you," she said, biting her lip worriedly. "I could come with you to explain."

"Then you'd _definitely _be late for McGonagall," Harry told her over his shoulder, halfway down the corridor already. "Don't worry about it. I think I've faced worse than an angry Flitwick."

With one more friendly smile to encourage her not to bother about him, Harry rounded the corner just as the bell rang.

"You'd better hurry along, Miss Abbott," a voice behind Hannah said, making her jump. She had not noticed Professor McGonagall standing in her open classroom door a few paces away. "Before you're late," she added with the barest hint of a smile.

As Hannah scuttled into the classroom, flushed pink and clutching her inky possessions, Professor McGonagall looked down the corridor Harry Potter had disappeared down.

He got it from Lily, she thought. Looking at the genuine kindness in his bright green eyes, no one could have refuted the point.

**A/N: So this was ambitious as far as **_**short little snippets **_**are supposed to go. It was just that I wanted to look at **_**all **_**of these mothers and could not pick simply one scene. Thus you get three days in one! :) I hoped it would make up for my awful behind-ness. I've decided I'm too far buried in catch-up words at the moment for May, so I will have to start fresh and fill in the (considerable) gap later, as with the rest. Sorry! :/**

**My excuses for not updating yesterday or Friday stand thus: Friday I was too sick to crawl out of my dark bedroom in search of my laptop, so that's legit, but yesterday I mostly wasted my time FINALLY finishing an amazing Marauders' era fanfic I've been reading for like two weeks straight. No joke. But all 34 chapters and over SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND words are well worth the time and effort. It's called "The Life and Times" by Jewell5 (I'm not sure if that's how you spell her name), and while it is described as a Lily/James love story, it is also filled with friendships, Marauders awesomeness, and some VERY well-developed and un-OC-ish OCs. I'm half-convinced that Donna Shacklebolt and Adam McKinnon were really born in JKR's head, got lost, and then were taken in by the wonderful Miss Jewels herself. **

**But anyway, that's my excuse for not updating my other stories (among other things). I'll quit wasting your time with endorsements (but you know it must be good if I'm telling you to go read another story rather than begging for reviews for this one… although if you wouldn't **_**mind **_**dropping me a line before you hurried away, I would absolutely appreciate it). My A/N is approximately 300 words long now, the length these chapters are supposed to be, so… yeah, thanks for listening!**


	108. May 14

_Intromit__: to introduce; to send, put, or let in._

**May 14, 2026**

A young man stood outside the green door at the top of Waverly Tower. The collection of London flats, mostly inhabited by Ministry of Magic workers, frequently saw people loitering about this green door, waiting for the well-connected people who lived on its other side to come home. There were a couple residents of the household who rather liked the important air it brought to the otherwise unremarkable flat, but on the whole the practice was most irritating.

This young man, however, was not an ordinary loiterer. He wore dress robes, surely, and his hair was combed with the obvious effort of one trying to make a good impression, but it was easy enough to see that what brought him to this door was not a statement for the press, an interview with the high-ups, or even an important message to be delivered. No, what brought – or perhaps dragged would be a more accurate word – this particular loiterer to the green door at the top of Waverly Tower stood a few paces behind him brushing her short red hair out of her eyes as she leaned anxiously over the stair rail.

"This is a bad idea," Howard Garfield said for perhaps the fifth time that afternoon.

"No, it's not," his girlfriend insisted, letting go of the rail and striding back to his side, fiddling anxiously with the butterfly clip that held her short apple-red bangs in place. He liked the way she fidgeted like that, wrinkling her nose and biting her lip. There were marks on her lower lip from all the time she spent worrying it between her teeth. He had noticed them when… but that was beside the point.

Howard looked distinctly the worse for wear considering all he'd been doing that afternoon was sitting outside an apartment. His robes were ruffled, his palms sweaty, and a flustered look hung about him. But a flustered look always hung about Howard Garfield.

"Luce, I'm telling you, this is a bad idea," he said in a low, serious voice, blue eyes earnest. He didn't often speak so seriously and the freckles smattering his nose and cheeks made him look particularly young and naïve when he did. "If you just told him –"

Lucy cut him off, shaking her head wildly so that her choppy hair swirled like flame around her face. "It has to be like this," she insisted. "Trust me. Mum's… different than Dad. She understands things better. He'll like you. I know Dad will. And then we can tell him."

Howard swallowed audibly. "And if he doesn't? I mean, I'm not exactly the bloke every father wants their little girl to end up with. I'm two years out of school, haven't held down a job longer than six months, and only got _two _N.E.W.T.s, one of which was Muggle Studies. I'm a Hufflepuff for crying out loud!"

"And since when has being a Hufflepuff ever been a bad thing?" Lucy cut in, reaching up to take one of the hands Howard had flung into the air.

"I'm going to tell him, Lucy," Howard sighed, and it was more a lament than anything else.

"Don't you dare –" Lucy began, a dangerous fire coming to her eyes. Lucy had somehow missed out on the famous Weasley woman temper, but on rare occasions, some hidden vestige of it reared its fiery head.

"I won't _try _to," Howard interrupted before Lucy could build up into a threat. "But I'm so jumpy, it'll probably come tumbling out the first time I open my mouth. Wouldn't that be great? 'Hello, sir, nice to meet you, and by-the-way-I-knocked-up-your-daughter.'"

Lucy smacked his arm (none too lightly) and looked about the deserted landing fervently. "Don't just _say it _like that!" she hissed. "You've no idea who could be listening up here."

"You can't honestly think this'll be kept quiet?" Howard asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Dad and Molly are _both home_," Lucy told him in a furious whisper.

"What? Then what have we been doing out here?" Howard asked, running a nervous hand through his straw-colored hair and glancing anxiously at the door.

"Waiting for Mum –" Lucy started to explain, but before she'd gotten very far, the green door flew open.

"Lu! What're you doing hanging about out here?"

"Erm, hi, Daddy! There's someone I want you to meet," Lucy Weasley fairly squeaked.

And as she pushed an unwilling and ghostly-looking Howard into the flat ahead of her, she hissed in his ear that she would jinx his mouth shut if he so much as _thought _about spilling their three-months-along secret.

**A/N: So I didn't expect this to go where it did on the outset, but now I've got a whole backstory. :) Lucy's about nineteen in this. She's not a rebel-child by any means, but she and Howard…well, we might see a bit more of them if I find the right word. I've been meaning to do a Lucy story for ages. I PROMISED I'd get around to other next gen! :)**

**In other news, May is extremely busy. Hence my abysmal lack of updates. Halfway through this month and I've only got three chapters up. It's sad, I know it is… and this weekend is just not looking like prime catch-up time. Physics sucks. For me anyway. And for my updates. Hopefully I'll talk to you soon though! **


	109. May 15

_Altiloquent__: high flown or pretentious (of language). _

**May 15, 1897**

The hall rang with applause. Every face was turned toward the raised podium, the tall, thin, bespectacled young man who reigned over it. His face, framed by a few stray auburn locks, looked scholarly and wise, despite its youth. His sharp blue eyes seemed to see everything.

"Good evening," he greeted, and when he spoke, it was with a draw to listen that even the headmaster had yet to perfect. "I realize that most of you arrived today with a certain skepticism for the temerity of one not even out of school yet publishing theories on Transfiguration. Myself included," he paused then as the audience rustled with appreciative snickers.

At the back of the room, a boy leaning against the wall rolled his eyes. As ifhe could ever doubt his own theories. As the speaker at the podium went on, spilling forth all those great long words he'd combed out of books, explaining to the learned community what most regarded as brilliant ideas – genius even, for one so young – the boy at the back made his way to the doors and slipped out, not troubling to muffle the thump the heavy oak made when they closed behind him.

And people had once thought them to be bookends….

**A/N: Short, but since I've had a lot of long ones, I figured it was time for a short one. Bit vague, but how many people could this really be? Anyway, hopefully I'll get time to work on my OTHER story (the reading the books one on my cousin's profile) around Physics tonight, so that's why this is my only update today. Reviews are lovely, btw. :) **


	110. May 16

_Spruik__: to make or give a speech, especially extensively; spiel. _

**May 16, 2016**

Professor Lancing's footsteps rang in the silent classroom. Thirty students occupied the desks, watching him slowly cross the room to the old turn table that sat at the back. The seventh year Defense Against the Dark Arts students had been anticipating this lesson for weeks. Some for years. It was common knowledge what the N.E.W.T. students studied in the last months of their education: the reason for knowing such things and hoping never to have a need to employ them.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, well aware that every eye was on him, lifted a black disk that resembled a record, although it was smooth and covered in thin, dancing gold lines rather than grooves. He paused long enough for the students to get a good look at it, but, uncharacteristically, offered no explanations or elaborations. There was no need. The class already knew the story.

Eighteen years ago, in the aftermath of the greatest battle in recent Wizarding history, perhaps _all _wizarding history, people wanted to understand what had happened. They were grieving and in shock and generally reeling from the devastations of war. Kingsley Shacklebolt, their new leader, had given half a dozen exhausted speeches filled with reassurances, promises of rebuilding a bright future. But what they wanted was to understand how it had all ended. They wanted to hear from the person who had, once again, become their savior.

But he was a seventeen-year-old boy in the process of burying loved one after loved one. After everything he'd done for them, no one who might have persuaded him to give a speech thought the world had a right to ask _that _of him, too.

And this was how Lee Jordan, who would later go on to become 'the most recognized voice in Wizarding Britain,' came to produce a recording of the final showdown of the war. Apparently he alone had had the foresight in those climactic ending moments to magically capture what was obviously the most intense conversation of their time.

Harry Potter never made a speech to the public explaining that night. Indeed it was six years before he addressed the wizarding world as a whole at all. But he did give Lee Jordan permission to release his recording in lieu of a direct address. That is, after modifications were made to ensure certain words were kept inaudible.

Lancing lowered the record onto the turn table and silently began to count the seconds of spinning static. He had reached seven before a clear, loud cry burst from the speaker as if the person stood in the room with them.

"Protego!"

Each student sat perfectly still as they listened to history spool in the lofty stone classroom around them. At the back of the fourth row, a boy with turquoise hair had stiffened. Professor Lancing watched him carefully, worriedly. But the boy stared fixedly at the quill he'd been turning over in his fingers as the most famous and unintended speech of the last century crashed over him in a voice more familiar to him than even the renowned Lee Jordan.

Younger than him… those words belonged to someone younger than he was right now.

**A/N: Meh. I'm sorry if this is somewhat unexciting and plain. It's late. I'm tired. This word was lending me no inspiration. I like the idea, but… anyway, thanks for all the reviews! I hope to keep hearing from you. **


	111. May 17

_Omphalos__: the central point._

**May 17, 1980**

They stood close together in the shadowed entryway. The orange glow of the lantern flickering on the front porch seeped through the frosted glass door and provided the only light. It gave a fiery quality to his dark, sparkling eyes, and her honey-blonde hair was died the color of rust in the muted lumination.

"I wish I had you at my back," he murmured, pushing one of her rusty ringlets behind her ear.

"Me too," she sighed, glancing out into the darkness that stretched indefinitely beyond the lantern light outside. "Two and a half months," she added, placing a hand on the swell of her belly between them.

Frank Longbottom chuckled. "You reckon Moody'll let you leave the office for the rest of the year?"

Alice made a disgruntled noise. "He does know _you _are as much a parent to this baby as I am, doesn't he? But he'll let you risk your neck. Sexist old codger," she added, although she was unable to keep the affection out of her voice.

Frank chuckled again. "I'll bet by Halloween he'll be desperate enough to employ even a new mother in field work again. He knows you're the best he's got. Hold out for the light at the end of the tunnel, Ally. Although, keep in mind that that light is flying curses, yeah?"

"I'll try," Alice muttered as he leaned down to kiss her. "Still bloody unfair that you get to see all the action."

"Speaking of, I better get going before I miss it all. Take care, love."

With one last kiss, Frank stepped away, swung the black traveling cloak around his shoulders, slipped out the front door. Alice leaned up against the glass and watched his blurry form disappear into the night, unable to stem the wave of jealousy that swept over her.

Then something moved inside her, a fluttering in her abdomen. Immediately, everything turned inward as she rested her hands on either side of her stomach. She still stared off into the darkness, but she no longer saw it. The small stirrings of life inside her easily became the center of everything.

Alice closed her eyes with a sigh and turned from the door. Each movement focused within. "Anything for you, my love," she murmured, smiling slightly in spite of herself.

**A/N: Shorter again. This was what it was **_**supposed **_**to be like from the start. Anyway, this word made me think of Rose of Sharon from **_**The Grapes of Wrath**_** (call me crazy, but it is my very favorite book next to **_**The Outsiders **_**and, obviously. **_**Harry Potter**_**). Happily, though, Alice's internal focus is not eclipsing and she gets a happier ending. Well, sort of. Her baby does, at any rate. **

**I also meant to mention the unnamed boy from May 15, the Dumbledore chapter. I intended him to be Aberforth, hence the bookends remark at the end, since Albus and he looked so much alike as children but ended up being so different, but a few of you interpreted it as Grindlewald, which I can totally see and rather like. I had originally planned on including him, but I thought the timeline was a bit off as he didn't meet Dumbledore until after Albus was out of school, but I suppose he might have already been living with his aunt… it could go however you want it to go, I suppose. I was very vague with him, wasn't I? But I meant him to be Aberforth. **

**As always, thank you for your lovely reviews. :)**


	112. May 18

_Pip__: to peep or chirp._

**May 18, 2026**

There was, perhaps, no other office in the Auror department so decorated than that of the Head of the Department. First of all, a great number of photographs clustered together on the filing cabinets, the desk, the windowsill, wherever there was room. They showed images of at least six or seven different small children, many well-known faces from the press as they had been in adolescence, and a few scattered, aged snapshots that had been rescued from the whirlpool of time. It was not hard to understand where the Head Auror's motivation lay after one quick glance around his office.

Yet, not a single photograph hung on the walls. They had all been pushed into freestanding frames by a more demanding presence occupying the limited plaster space. Beginning beside the window with abstract finger-paint smears, moving around the door with rainbows, flowers, brightly scaled fish, and blobs that were meant to be people, and exploding on the one entirely blank wall with watercolor paintings of a rather scruffy, teetering, red-roofed farmhouse, sketches of various familiar, freckled faces, and richly colored paintings of soaring phoenixes, cantering silver unicorns, busy London streets, and the ancient stone walls of majestic castle. And in the bottom corner of each piece of artwork was signed a name in looping ink: Lily Luna Potter.

The door to the office creaked open, admitting the Head himself. He was talking rapidly to someone out in the hall, his arms full of bulging files and whirring bits of curious devices. "…they're to be back here by sundown, not a minute later. Make sure Freely checks in with me. I want his report…. No, Sommers leads. She's been working the case – well, tell _her _that. And if Weasley isn't in here in the next ten minutes, I'm cutting his coffee break; make sure he knows that's a threat!"

With those parting words, Harry Potter let his office door swing shut and hefted his load onto the desk. As he did, however, a loose scrap of parchment fluttered to the floor and he stooped to retrieve it. A fond smile softened the corners of Harry's lips as he straightened up, running a hand through his messy black hair as he reread the familiar script.

The letter had arrived three days before, clamped in the beak of a beautiful, white snowy owl. The primary subject on his daughter's mind had been an upcoming exam in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which had been set for that very morning. For her final project, she had chosen to master one of the trickiest charms accomplished by students: a messenger patronus. A term's worth of one-on-one lessons with her professor, her father's guidance mainly through letters, and at least a dozen books out of the restricted section had gone into this performance.

But it was far more than a grade that hung on her success or failure today. Harry knew this all too well, for the rest of the letter went on to discuss the deal that she had made with him back in December, back when she had first proposed the apprenticeship with a skilled Muggle artist in Italy. It was an opportunity, she had insisted, that didn't come along more than once in a lifetime, and she had argued hard for a freedom her parents were reluctant to grant only because of the vulnerability it posed. But at long last, they had come to an agreement.

Harry set the letter down and turned to look at the art showcase his office had become. They were extraordinary, he knew, had long-since marveled at them. Where this artistic gift came from, neither he nor his wife could very well figure out, but their daughter seemed to know a whole other kind of magic they couldn't begin to work. He touched the corner of the nearest painting, the signature identical to the one at the end of the letter.

Ar least one solid lifeline. That was what he wanted before he would let his little girl venture off into the world alone. He wanted to know that, should she ever need to, she could contact him instantly, that he could be at her side in half an hour at most should she need him. So a patronus was the deal. A corporeal, speaking patronus.

Lily had thrown her whole heart into the effort, but as of Sunday evening, she felt it was a skill impossible to master. The form was indistinct or the voice came out warbled, the spell was too faint to carry a message or jetted off to quickly to pick one up. And she wanted to go to Italy _so_ badly.

With difficulty, Harry laid the letter aside and began attending to the files he had brought with him, glancing at the clock ever now and then as he waited for his second-in-command to finally get around to joining him.

…

It was just before he locked his office door that evening. Most of the cubicles were dark already, so when the silver jet streaked through the room, it drew his eye at once. Instinctively, he drew his wand, heart quickening reactively. But when the light materialized into a solid shape, it was not any of the familiar animals he might have expected.

A small, brilliantly silver wren fluttered in the air before his eyes, swooping in proud little circles. "I did it!" it trilled in his daughter's bubbly, delighted voice. "I did it, Daddy! I'm going to Italy!"

A grin broke out across Harry's face as he watched the tiny bird soar excitedly, chirping Lily's message again out of pure enthusiasm for the job. But there was a small tinge of melancholy mixed in with the pride as he put out a hand for the bird to alight on. He supposed he should have known there would be no holding her back.

Harry lifted the bird up above his head and watched as it launched itself skyward, dissipating into a cloud of silver mist just before it hit the ceiling.

**A/N: Nice and long again. Lily Luna Potter fits a wren perfectly in my head. And now you know what her future holds, at least a bit of it. I'd like to say more on the subject, but for now I'll leave it at that. Hope you enjoyed! Oh, and THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES to anyone who helped me reach 500 reviews! You all are amazing! :) Do you think we'll break 1,000?**


	113. May 19

_Phatic__: denoting speech used to create an atmosphere of goodwill. _

**May 19, 1976**

"What do you think? I reckon I could pull off the gothic look. Dye my hair black, get some eyeliner… Sev? Are you listening?"

Severus Snape snapped his gaze to the redhead in front of him giving him an impatient look.

"Hm?"

"I've decided to cut my hair off and dye it black. Any reaction?" Lily asked, raising a thin eyebrow. Her homework, spread between them on the library table, was long forgotten. "We could pass as twins," she mused, smirking at her companion and his curtain of lank, night-black hair.

"Er…" Snape mumbled something indistinct before retreating into his potions book, which made Lily laugh.

She leaned forward, propping her chin on the palm of her hand, demanding his attention with those luminescent green eyes. "Do you know what Reg Cattermole told me the other day?..."

It might have been like the old days, back when they were each other's sole confidant. Back when it had seemed like they two against the world and both had believed they were on the winning side. Lily chattered away, and Snape listened with interest masked poorly by boredom. It might have been a scene unchanged in five years.

But they both were acutely aware of the group huddled round a table in the shadowy corner of the library behind Lily, of the dark looks it cast in their direction. And they were both aware of the other pretending not to have noticed.

Lily scarcely cared what she was saying. The words tripped from her mouth now as a means of simply keeping confrontation at bay. It was a charade now. What had once been a refuge had turned into a show. They both knew it, but for some reason they kept it going. Lily wondered why, suddenly, as she recounted the meaningless happenings of her day simply for something pleasant to fill the silence.

But the answer was simple enough: objects in motion tend to stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.

**A/N: a glimpse at the fading friendship of Lily Evans and Severus Snape. I don't think I've gotten around to them… I find them fascinating. Maybe I'll find something more interesting for them later… :) **


	114. May 20

_Gambit__: a remark made to open or redirect a conversation._

**May 20, 2000**

The Saturday night crowd packed itself into the Leaky Cauldron. Hannah was already flushed and flitting from customer to customer as if the floor were made of hot coals. Neville, who had recently and unofficially taken up a weekend shift behind the bar, was directing a symphony of bottles and dishes to serve the patrons. The pub was abuzz with activity and conversation.

All except for a small table in the middle of the bustling floor whose occupants seemed to sit in a bubble of silence, buffeted by the sea of noise on all sides.

Harry leaned back in his chair, looking around at the other pub goers with vague interest, occasionally greeting acquaintances who hailed him jovially from across the room, calling for him to join them. But every time he declined the offer politely, glancing at his companion. In the quarter of an hour since their arrival, she had sat in silence, arms folded and a tight glare directed down at untouched silverware.

But Harry knew her frosty mood was not directed at him, and perhaps that was what gave him the foolish courage to break the silence.

"You seem miffed," he observed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table top.

Hermione looked up at him with enough electricity in her eyes to make him wish he could reel in the comment.

"Do I?" she asked, a crackle in her voice. "I couldn't ever imagine why that might be."

She cast a withering look at the conspicuously empty third chair beside them.

"Right, why is it exactly that Ron didn't come out tonight?" Harry asked cautiously. "You haven't, you know, locked him up in the cellar or something, have you?"

Hermione laughed humorlessly. "I've just barely managed to restrain myself. No, Ron didn't come out tonight because he is the world's biggest prat, and I made it quite clear that I don't want to see or speak to him any time soon."

"You do realize that you're both supposed to be in my wedding in three weeks, right?" Harry reminded her.

Hermione bristled. "I'll go blindfolded, then. Or maybe you should consider finding yourself a new best man because your current one seems to think the establishment of marriage is an evil, corrupting entity."

"What gave you that impression?" Harry inquired, trying not to smirk.

"I don't know, perhaps his declaration that no woman in the world was worth sacrificing his freedom for," Hermione said angrily.

"Did he really say that?" Harry asked, unable to repress his snort of laughter.

"He might as well have!"

"Come on, Hermione, you don't think he really means –"

"It would be nice," Hermione interrupted, scowling at him now, "if for _once, _you took my side of things."

"I took your side of things last week!" Harry protested.

"Picking pubs doesn't count, Potter," she snapped. "Are all men so completely averse to solidarity to a woman? I mean, after everything we've been through, was it really so foolish of me to think we'd all stand by each other for the rest of our lives? Was I deluding myself, Harry?"

"No, of course –"

"Well you know what? He can keep his bloody options open if it's so important to him. It's not as though I'm chaining him to a rock or anything. He needn't worry about choosing _me_ anymore."

"Hermione, don't you think you're overreact –"

"It's not like I was demanding he get down on one knee this very second, but who says things like that right in front of their girlfriend, anyway? Don't you think he was just a _little bit _in the wrong?"

"We've known Ron's tactless beyond hope," Harry tried to placate. "He's probably only just figured out why you're cross with him. Why don't we order? What do you think you're going to get?"

He picked up his menu and began skimming down the list of food, even though he knew it by heart.

"I wash his bloody socks for him, for Merlin's sake! The thought of living with me can't be _so _repulsive."

"Hey, did you hear about that new policy Shepherd's starting in the department?"

"_He_ should try living with someone who can't even get his dishes to the sink with _magic_. And I know his mother didn't raise him in a pig sty."

"How about them Tornados, right? They've been having a good season lately."

"_And who exactly does he think he's going be 'keeping his options open' for_? Madam Rosemerta? That drummer from the Weird Sisters he's got a poster of? _Honestly_."

"Abort, abort. Forget I mentioned it." Harry held up his hands in a gesture of surrender under Hermione's fierce scowl.

"He's just so…" she trailed off, abruptly losing her steam as she caught sight of Harry's desperate expression. "I'm ranting, aren't I?"

"Just a little," Harry told her, relieved at the reprieve from her anger.

"Sorry," she sighed, picking up her menu and flipping through it disinterestedly. "I'll save it for Ginny."

"I'll listen to about any other rant," Harry offered. "But you know…."

"I suppose it's rather awkward being caught in the middle," Hermione said ruefully, looking as though this thought had just crossed her mind.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You think?"

And at last she laughed with real humor. "We've been something of a handful, haven't we?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, you have. Especially since I've been so easy to deal with. I mean, I've put up with rather a lot over the years, don't you think?"

Hermione laughed again, reaching across the table to smack his arm affectionately. "I suppose it's silly to think, after everything, that we'd ever drift apart."

"A bit," Harry agreed. "Don't worry about Ron. He's just being thick, as usual. He'll come round."

"Of course he will," Hermione agreed, a determined glint in her eyes. "So did you really try to distract me with the Tornados' Quidditch season?..."

**A/N: Can't believe I've made it to 100 chapters. My first triple digit story! :) I really love Harry and Hermione's friendship incidentally. Hope you do too! I kind of imagine them getting coffee or lunch or whatever, just the two of them once or twice a week, as Harry works with Ron every day and Ron and Hermione do, eventually, get married and live together. Anyway… review? :) **


	115. May 21

_Belabor__: to explain, worry about, or work more than is necessary. _

**May 21, 1981**

"…There're some rings in the freezer in case he gets fussy, otherwise a pop sickle should do the trick. There's some applesauce in the cupboard, that should hold you the afternoon. Put him down for a nap around one-thirty. If it's too early, he won't sleep, and if it's too late he won't sleep _tonight_. There're plenty of toys if he gets bored. He really likes the picture books. He gets into _everything, _though, so you've got to keep a good eye on him. We've put all the breakables up, but all the same….

"If there's an emergency, Alice Longbottom's on call, and if you're really desperate, Mrs. Bagshot is just down the street. St. Mungo's direct floo line is above the mantle, first aid's in the bathroom cabinet. We'll be back tonight, and if anything happens, you can get a hold of us through Dumbledore. Any questions?"

James Potter looked down expectantly into the crib he'd been pacing in front of. Bright green eyes stared back at him. A shrill squeal was the only reply he got. James grinned and scooped his son into his arms, heading for the stairs.

"I know it's the first time we're leaving you on your own with Padfoot, but you'll be fine. You get the hang of it pretty quickly."

At the bottom of the stairs, Sirius stood with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, an armful of stuffed animals, and a parchment covered in instructions that was practically touching the floor. He was staring at Lily's small, neat writing, looking rather windswept as Lily hurled yet more details at him at a mile a minute.

"… don't know if he's allergic to strawberries yet, so you'd better steer clear of those, but if he _does _get into them, there's a spell in _A Healer's Basic Guidebook_. But if you've never done it before, maybe you should just take him to St. Mungo's and –"

"Lily," James cut across her smoothly, leaning down to kiss her cheek as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Sirius isn't going to give him strawberries, are you, Padfoot?"

Sirius shook his head fervently, slightly wide-eyed.

Lily let out a great gust of air, which left her somewhat slouched. "I'm sorry, Sirius. We've just never left him with someone who hasn't had a baby before."

"Don't worry about it," James said lightly, bouncing Harry in his arms and not sure if he was talking to his wife, his best friend, or his son. "He's ten months old, he can practically take care of himself. Besides, I've already given him the Sirius-sitting instructions. Everything'll be fine. And if it's not, we'll make Moony godfather instead."

He flashed a smirk at Sirius as Lily took Harry, kissing his rosy cheek. "You be good for your godfather," she told him before letting him spill into Sirius's overflowing arms.

He juggled the baby in his arms, looking down at Harry's bright, slightly sticky face. Harry squealed and pushed a little hand against Sirius's chin. It might have been the first challenge Sirius Black had ever met with nervousness.

**A/N: Tehe, Sirius/Remus babysitting always amuses me a bit. Poor blokes... Anyway *cringe* it's been a while again, hasn't it? :/ I've had to babysit a lot lately, which leaves no time for writing! Hope you liked this one. **


	116. May 22

_Cumulus__: a heap; pile._

**May 22, 1986**

Warm rain washed over the windows, fell softly on the summer-green fields, made the stove seem warmer and more inviting. Molly Weasley clutched her mug of tea and peered out the droplet-flecked window at the muddy yard, the seven bright raincoats moving about in it. She had not felt so chilly and alone in a very long time. A part of her had never really believed her father could pass away.

It had happened five days ago, now. It was hard to believe that five suns had risen and set and her father had missed all of them. Molly was no stranger to grief, but life had rolled along so wonderfully normally that she had forgotten to brace herself for it and her mother's letter had been like an iron fist to a soft stomach. He had been ill lately. Her brothers' deaths more than six years before had taken a lot out of him. He had never been quite right after that. But a small, childish part of her had refused to believe anything could bring down the stout, strong, grinning man who had once swung Molly up onto his shoulders as if she were made of nothing but feathers.

Bill and Charlie had come home for the funeral that morning. It had started to rain halfway through the ceremony. The twins had jumped in every mud puddle between them and the church fireplace they'd used to floo home. She had let the seven of them loose into the yard so that they might blow off the energy that had built up sitting quietly in the church all morning. But the empty house and the rain and the memories of summer afternoons spent tucked by the fire, listening to her father read aloud above the swish of a good summer storm made her feel suddenly empty and alone.

A crack of thunder rang across the blackening sky and lightning flashed jaggedly in the distance. Molly set down her mug and moved to the back door, sticking her head out into the damp chill outside to call her children in before the lightning drew any closer.

Percy was the first through the door, his yellow jacket the only one without a spot of mud on it. He squinted through his fogged up glasses as he fought his way out of the wellington boots that had once been Bill's and set them neatly in the corner.

"Have we got tea?" he asked hopefully, looking toward the stove.

Molly smiled in spite of herself. "Will hot chocolate do?"

Percy accepted the offered mug with a sigh that he supposed it would have to just as Charlie came stomping through the door, shaking like a wet dog and sending water droplets everywhere. Percy squawked as he was spattered, but Charlie paid him no heed as he kicked off his own boots into the corner with Percy's, knocking them over into a heap.

Right behind him were the twins, plastered in mud from head to toe so that the red of their coats was barely visible. They imitated the storm brewing outside as they pulled off their jackets and launched their boots into the growing pile beside the door, spattering mud in all directions.

Bill guided the littlest bright rain jackets into the kitchen as Charlie ushered the twins through to the sitting room, joining in with their sound effects much to Percy's irritation. Bill pulled the door closed behind him with a gusty breath and began to peel his soaked jacket off (he was too old for yellow rain coats, he told his mother).

Molly knelt down before the littlest two, pulling Ron's dripping hat off and kissing the top of his damp head, hearing his teeth chattering.

"We made pies," Ginny informed her mother delightedly, squirming out of her jacket as Bill helped Ron to unbutton his. She displayed her filthy hands for her mother's approval.

As Molly cleaned off Ginny's hands, Bill gathered up the little ones' discarded jackets and boots and added them to the pile now surrounded by a moat of a puddle seeping from all sides. Then he chased Ron out of the kitchen and Ginny tore after them, pausing only long enough to straighten her flowery pink boots at the top of the mound.

Molly poured six more steaming mugs of hot chocolate, listening to her children in the next room, a healthy whirlwind of noise. She carried the tray into the cramped sitting room where all seven of them were heaped around the crackling hearth as Bill began to relate some tall tales about Hogwarts to the awe of the five who had yet to walk its halls and the amusement of the one other who had.

A warm feeling settled in her for the first time in five days. For every memory lost to the eddies of time, new ones would come along in their place. An ongoing collection to save for a rainy day.

**A/N: Two updates today because FF wouldn't let me post yesterday! I don't know if any of you have read Septimus Heap by Angie Sage but the Weasleys remind me of the Heaps and this word reminded me of both of them :) Hope you liked it! Thank you ever so much for your lovely reviews! **


	117. May 23

_Chrestomathy__: a collection of selected literary passages._

**May 23, 1975**

With the street fair came the first succulent taste of summer. Sun intense enough to be called hot blazed in a clear cerulean sky. Children ran barefoot in the grass, couples strolled hand-in-hand among the exuberant vendors, and even the fussiest old ladies settled by their families beneath fanning trees to wait out the festivities were coaxed out of their cardigans. Paper banners spanned the roads, fluttering in the warm breeze, and the enticing sent of hot, fried food and sticky, sugary things swirled in the lively atmosphere.

Megan Granger made yet another lap of the crowded main thoroughfare, her keen, coffee-brown eyes sweeping the faces that swam past her searchingly. But the eager, slightly frazzled form of her husband was not among them. She heaved a sigh and sank down onto a cement bench, too hot to move another step.

She had thought that once she gave in and married him, her long-time love and even-longer-time friend would actually manage to keep the dates they set. Especially dates set to celebrate her birthday. Of course, it wasn't technically Megan Granger's birthday. It had been on Wednesday, but both had been so buried in work that it was something of a relief _not _to have to do anything special. They had agreed to save that for today. And her husband was an hour late.

Megan caught sight of a tall, gangly man in a pinstriped apron across the way who kept pulling deliciously sticky-looking buns out of a cart, and had just made up her mind to get her hands on one when someone hurtled past her. He skidded to halt in front of a startled group of gossiping women (accidentally spraying one with gravel), and backtracked to plant himself firmly in front of Megan.

"Paul!" she cried, startled by his sudden appearance. "Where on earth have you been? I've been around the fair half a dozen times!"

She fixed him with a sterner look than usual because it was her make-up birthday and the first big occasion since their wedding in January and honestly he should have learned how to keep time by _now_.

"I'm sorry," Paul panted, bent double. He had never been an athletic man and, having realized his lateness, had run at full tilt from the car park at least a mile down the road.

"Yes, well," Megan said, folding her arms. But her expression had softened. "Buy me a cinnamon bun and I'll forgive you."

Paul sank onto the bench beside her, still red-faced and puffing, but inexplicably beaming.

"I'll do one better than that," he managed breathlessly.

For the first time, Megan noticed the brown paper bag he clutched in his hands. He turned to the table behind them and tipped it upside down. A leather-bound book slid onto the concrete slab with a soft thump that could scarcely be heard in the chaos of the fair. Megan gasped quietly at the curly, gold title, the crackling, gold-edged pages. It was more beautiful to her than any diamond or work of metal.

"Oh, Paul, it's lovely!" she said happily, carefully picking it up and thumbing through it eagerly, completely forgetting her decision to be annoyed with her husband for at _least _another ten minutes.

"Thought you'd like it," Paul grinned. "The complete works of William Shakespeare. Isn't he your favorite?"

Megan smiled, leaning down to kiss her husband, but hugging the book to her chest as if it were her first born. "Might be."

**A/N: There aren't an excessive number of stories dealing with Hermione's parents, primarily I think because JKR gives us absolutely nothing to go on. They don't even have names or descriptions or any kind of importance, thus are not particularly interesting to read about. But who else in the world of Harry Potter could claim a word like this, hm? :)**

**Oh yes, and a shout out goes to Imp, who, last I heard, was on chapter 80, but troubled themselves to leave me a lovely long review for as many of the chapters as they could remember, which is impressive given that there were EIGHTY. :) Thank you!**


	118. May 24

_\Demiurge__: the creator of a world._

**May 24, 2012**

A skinny boy with glasses too big for his face barreled into the heavy glass doors of the bookstore so hard, he nearly hit his head on the metal frame. Completely undaunted, he put all his weight against the door, just managing to open it enough to squeeze through, and zipped off down the broad center aisle, heedless of the clerk at the long row of registers to 'mind the books!'.

He expertly wove between tables stacked with precarious pyramids of glossy-covered bestsellers sporting the faces of suited business people and their promises of success or fortune. He leapt onto the escalator and dived between people as he took the steps two at a time, then rushed past long rows of towering books labeled history, poetry, biography etc. He didn't even glance at the scanty corner devoted to 'teens', which was more filled with plastic vampire teeth and tee-shirts to match the played-out romances that flooded its shelves than actual books.

Only when he reached the blissful corner of the expansive store marked 'youth' and displaying proudly the most reliable books in the whole place to give the satisfaction of a happy ending and the belief that all things turn out as they ought to in the end, did he stop. And there it was, practically a shrine on the back wall surrounded by all the flashy merchandise (the inevitable leaches that latch on to any success).

Slowly, now that his quarry was in view, the boy walked across the polished tile floor and stood before the bookcase laden with the chronicles of the most fantastic world he had ever lost himself in. The familiar, buzzing excitement seemed to rattle his very bones as he reached for the prize at the top, knowing it was the last time he would do so. There was a strangely melancholy note in his thoughts as he cradled the heavy tome in his comparatively small hands. But it was soon driven out by ringing anticipation as he tore off through the store again, unable to wait another second to be back in a world of magic.

The clerk who had yelled at him upon his entrance rang him up. She surveyed the child's painfully eager face as he snatched the plastic bag containing his treasure off the counter and plowed back out the heavy door again. How many just like him had she seen? She shook her head, thinking of the mob that had filled this store five years before on that final release date, the people – old and young – who had come out at midnight garbed in all assortments of strange clothes and speaking what seemed practically a foreign tongue to her. All strangers, they were, but they welcomed each other like old friends, all part of something, all celebrating and mourning the same thing.

She had to hand it to that Rowling woman. She had set out to write a book, and made a whole world. Amazing how easily people were drawn to things that did not exist.

When she walked home that evening, the clerk was too absorbed in her own thoughts, pondering why it was people were so attracted to the impossible, that she barely noticed the thin, black-haired man who bumped into her. He muttered a polite apology, straightening his round glasses, and hurried off after the little red-haired girl skipping ahead of him. By the time she reached her cozy flat nestled in the middle of London, she had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. \

**A/N: I realize that this was fairly un-fanfictiony and an indulgence of my writing perhaps, but I honestly could think of no other angle to take with this word. I really wanted to write something about JKR herself, but it felt far too weird to even think about describing the fictional actions of a real person, so…. Oh, and perhaps I'm a bit hard on the teen sections of bookstores and it is likely that British bookstores don't have the same vampire obsession that American teen sections do, but this is the appalling state I have always found my local bookstores keeping their 'teen' section in. Much better luck in the youth….**

**Anyway, thanks for humoring me! I'll try to get more entertaining. **


	119. May 25

_Ingeminate__: to repeat; reiterate._

**May 25, 2008**

The front door of shell cottage banged open, and two small figures shot out into the emerald green lawn of early summer. Both were dressed in matching yellow sundresses patterned with daisies, long hair wound into bouncing braids. The taller girl's braids shone pinkish gold, and the littler one, trailing behind, had a head of glowing copper, but aside from that, they might be a matching set.

The older girl stopped at the white picket fence that jogged more lazily than a picket fence normally did along the gravel road and turned to face her shadow, hands on hips.

"Dominique," she said patiently.

The little girl mirrored her pose. "Dominique," she said in the same tone.

Her sister (for they could only be sisters) closed her eyes briefly. "You are too big for the shadow game," she said firmly.

"You are too big for the shadow game," Dominique informed her, blue eyes dancing.

"Yes, _I _realized that years ago."

"Yes, _I _realized that years ago."

"The older girl shook her head and proceeded to climb over the fence, willowy and graceful even at the age of eight, and set off at a sprint across the ever-vacant road toward the path to the beach some yards away. Dominique, more than a head shorter and much stouter than her sister, had more trouble with the fence, but she determinedly followed.

A handful of other children, all around the older girl's age or older, waited on the rocks at the top of the steep steps carved into the cliff face that led down to the sandy shore.

"Victoire!" one of the little girls heralded excitedly, seeing her approach.

Victoire didn't even slow down as she reached them, but charged on down the steep steps and didn't stop until she'd leapt off the bottom tier onto the baking sand.

"In a hurry?" a boy with curly brown hair who lived down the road a ways asked with amusement when the rest had caught up to her.

Victoire glanced over their shoulders at the vacant stairs.

"Hullo, Sam," she beamed, shifting her bright gaze onto the curly haired boy suddenly. "'lo, Elsie."

"Hullo, Sam. 'lo Elsie."

Victoire jerked her gaze up to the top of the stairs once more to see her little sister scrambling down the steps, panting a little, but watching her every move closely.

It was going to be a long day.

…

"Mum, make her go to her room!"

"Mum, make her go to her room!"

Fleur looked up from the dinner she was gathering on the table as her daughters pushed their way in through the back door, sun kissed and sandy.

"She keeps saying –"

"She keeps saying –"

"- Everything I do –"

" – Everything I do – "

" – And it's driving me mad!"

" – and it's driving me –"

"Alright, alright, zat ees enough!" Fleur cut in, head ringing already.

Victoire crossed her arms and smirked at Dominique.

"Mad," Dominique chirped, finishing the sentence as she mimicked her sister's stance.

"Dominique, ma cherie, go upstairs and clean up, s'il vous plait," Fleur instructed with a gentle sternness that invited no refusals. "Maintenant, love."

Dominique lingered a moment longer, but at last had to bow to defeat and scampered for the steps. At the base of the stairwell, she turned and poked her tongue out at her sister. Victoire threw herself into a chair as the sounds of running water came from the bathroom upstairs.

"Why couldn't I be an only child?" she demanded.

Her mother laughed softly, a pretty, bell-like sound, and moved around the table to smooth Victoire's hair. "'Ave you ever 'eard ze phrase 'imeetation eez ze sincerest form of flattery'?"

**A/N: ah, the joys of little sisters, huh? I think, just a tiny bit when they were kids, Dominique was jealous of her sister, or perhaps simply wanted to be more like her. Dominique, being her go-getter self, chose this approach. And also she liked getting on her sister's nerves, because I hear most sisters like to do that from time to time. **

**Anyway, love you all! Especially those of you who review! :)**


	120. May 26

_Betide__: to happen to; come to; befall._

**May 26, 1965**

The stranger arrived in the blazing oranges of sunset. He and his companions were little more than shadows slinking up the craggy hillside. At the crest of the uneven slopes ran a rutted road that trundled into a small town. There was only one main roadway, and the shadowy figures peered down at the little people scurrying to and fro among the houses and shops with a hungry look in their yellow eyes.

A few low words were growled, one of the companions dived at another and was sent smacking into a rock by the leader of the scraggly little group. Then, pulling the ragged dark cloak he wore around his thin, hunched shoulders, the stranger began to walk toward the town alone, loping like a beast on the prowl.

…

It was a ramshackle place, really, the inn perched at the far end of the town. The stranger stood across the road, chewing a dirty fingernail and watching the few people who moved in and out beneath the flaking, red-painted roof. He could not believe this was the place they had sent him.

A lantern swung from the rafters, a puddle of glowing light in the rapidly darkening street. Only one hobbling old man had gone into the lobby to talk to the spectacled man perched behind the desk there. But a steady trickle of people filtered in and out of the swinging door on the side of the building that led to a dining room. He could hear the buzz of warm conversations, bursts of merry laughter, smell the delicious scent of roasting meat swirling out with each swing of that door.

With a quick glance skyward at the darkening horizon, the stranger lurched away from his shadowed corner and purposefully made his way to the swinging door. Before his gnarled hands could touch the wood, however, it swung back and a little boy grinned up at him.

"We've got two tables left," he said in a trilling voice.

"What have I told you about opening the door?" A pretty woman had emerged from the crossed dining floor, hands on hips as she scolded the boy.

"I's just tellin' 'im we got two tables left," the little boy said, looking up earnestly at the woman.

Her sternness melted into a smile. "Go in the back, and see if Marcy's got some marzipan for you, and leave me to handle the door," she instructed.

The little boy dashed away eagerly and the woman looked after him fondly. "My son," she told the stranger standing in the doorway. "He's always underfoot here, but he's got our regulars wrapped around his little finger and the cook loves him to death."

She smiled at the grimy man dressed in his rags, and he grinned back. For a moment – just a moment – her expression faltered, but she turned quickly and began leading him toward the large stone fireplace that dominated the back wall. She made for the table right before it, bathed in the warm light of the flames, but the stranger veered toward the other empty table shoved in a dim corner. After a moment of looking wrong-footed, the woman followed.

She set a worn menu before the stranger and with a cheerful, "I'll check on you in a minute or two," turned to go.

Bony fingers locked around her wrist, dirty fingernails grazing her smooth skin. She gave a gasp of shock and pain and tried to pull free, but the fingers were surprisingly strong.

"What's the rush, angel?" the stranger asked in a gravelly voice, pulling her back toward him.

"Let me go!" the woman cried, but her voice was strangled by the arm that had snaked around her waist and squeezed the breath out of her.

"Won't you keep a poor traveler company?"

The woman's eyes were wide with fright and she fought to loosen his hold. She smelled of lavender.

There was a sudden burst of light, like a tiny fire had erupted and died in the dim corner, and the stranger let his captive go with a howl of pain. The woman fell forward, stumbling over to the spectacled deskman who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, discreetly slipping a thin piece of wood into his pocket.

With a cold glare at the mangy stranger, he said coldly, "Get out. We don't serve your _kind _here."

"_My _kind?" the stranger growled menacingly.

The deskman pointed to the black moon pendant that hung at the stranger's throat. "You know what I mean," he said in a low voice. "If you ever touch my wife again, I shall ensure you are hunted like the beast you are."

By then, several of the diners had turned to watch the confrontation. The stranger stood with a feral expression twisting his face, his gaze locked on the pocket the wand had disappeared into.

"May curses of the darkest nature befall you," he growled and slunk to the swinging door. But before he left, he turned to meet the woman's still-wide eyes across the room. Her lavender scent still lingered in his nostrils.

The kitchen door burst open, and the little boy ran to his mother. She scooped him into her arms, murmuring, "Hush, Remus. Everything's alright."

The deskman's icy glare still bore into the stranger's eyes. He turned and swept off into the gathering darkness. But tonight, he would be back.

**A/N: Apparently I like ambiguity. I do hope you didn't spend too much of this chapter wondering how this related to Harry Potter…. You know, I always thought Lupin had said his father offended the Death Eaters until yesterday when I reread that part and realized it was just Grayback…. I kind of thought that pendant he was wearing was the symbol for a group similar to the Death Eaters, but way less coordinated and with a very brief lifespan. The inn existed in a wizarding community, but also served muggles, which was why Grayback was sent. He had intended to transform in the middle of the dining room, but got thrown out, so….**


	121. May 27

_Ventose__: given to empty talk; windy_.

**May 27, 1989**

"You're so full of it, Charlie."

"What? I'd do it if it weren't storming."

"Right. So tomorrow when the storm's gone, let's see you jump into the lake and wrestle my Charms book from the giant squid."

"Well, if you weren't such a hopeless klutz I wouldn't have to." Charlie declared, smirking at his friend and flexing his muscles (which admittedly were a little impressive). "Bit as it is, it will have to be Charlie Weasley to the rescue yet again."

A moment later, he had dived behind his older brother to avoid the transfiguration book hurled at him by the pink-haired Nymphadora Tonks (who had good aim for being such a hopeless klutz).

"Taken like a true man," Bill sniggered as Charlie peaked over his shoulder.

The three of them, along with a small crowd of other fifth and seventh years had gathered on the astronomy tower in rebellion against the long, _long, _stressful hours of studying that had oppressed them for the past several weeks. Bill and his friends had put up a tent to keep the rain out, Tonks and a few of here Hufflepuff friends had provided refreshments from the kitchens, and now they sat in a warm, loudly chattering huddle as a wild storm crashed around them.

"You shouldn't throw things at people offering to rescue your poor squid-chow textbooks," Charlie chided his friend, picking up her transfiguration book and dusting off the cover primly.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Just like you're going to tame your own unicorn and frame Percy for some big prank and ask Alma Bently to Hogsmeade and actually turn in your herbology homework? Give it here, you prat," she added, stretching out a hand for her book.

"I think I'd better keep it before this one goes tumbling to its death, too," said Charlie. "And I _will _do all of those things, just you wait."

"We've been waiting for three years," Tonks smirked.

"You really don't think I'd help you get your book back?" Charlie asked as Bill, too quick for his little brother, suddenly jerked the transfiguration book Tonks was attempting to wrest from his grip away from Charlie and returned it to its owner.

Charlie stuck his tongue out as his brother, but turned back to Tonks expectantly.

"You're all talk and no action," Tonks told him, tucking her book safely back into her bag. "But why does it matters, Charlie? We both know my book's long gone anyway, and you'd let yourself get drowned by the grindylows before you hurt a suction cup on the giant squid's tentacles."

"I'm action," Charlie said indignantly, completely ignoring the last part of Tonks's reply. "I'm plenty of action. It's always me that ends up having to fix everyone's problems! I've got to rescue your book from the lake. I've got to make sure Percy doesn't get beat up for being an annoying suck-up and reporting every broken rule he sees. I've got to keep the twins busy so Mum can get something done. I've got to fairy Bill's love notes to all the girls he's got falling all over him –"

"I've only had two girlfriends," Bill cut in, rolling his eyes. "And _I've _got to do half that stuff, too. It's called having responsibilities."

Charlie crossed his arms. "Point is, someday I'm gonna take off, and you're all going to realized just how much action I really am."

"I didn't mean anything by it," Tonks said placatingly, surprised at Charlie's sudden outburst. "You're always there, Charlie. We couldn't ever take that for granted. "

"Knew I shouldn't have given you butterbear. Makes you all sentimental," Charlie responded, making a face. But he looked mollified all the same, so Tonks felt safe in smacking him in the face with a packet of pepper imps.

"But we also know you're not going to go wrestle the giant squid or tame a unicorn or take off for distant corners of the globe," Bill put in, grabbing his little brother in a headlock.

"I will, too!"

"You're _so _full of it, Charlie."

**A/N: Ah, but he's not…. A lot was asked of Bill and Charlie, and while Bill was cut out for taking up the mantel (even if he did run off to Egypt to have his adventures), Charlie I think struggled a little more with all that responsibility. I've spent a lot of time wondering why Charlie stayed so far away and come up with a few reasons I hope to get the chance to write about soon…. **

**Anyway, thank you all so much for reviewing faithfully! You're all brilliant, brilliant people! :) Can I trouble you by asking for some more?**


	122. May 28

_Asperse__: to sprinkle; bespatter._

**May 28, 1972**

"Are you sure this is gonna work?" James hissed, sweeping his gaze up and down the deserted corridor.  
>"Of course it'll work," Sirius scoffed behind him, struggling to tie the end of a somewhat precarious-looking balloon. "I've got a manufacturer's guarantee."<p>

James rolled his eyes. "_You're _the manufacturer, Black."

Sirius turned around, still struggling with the balloon, and grinned at James. "Exactly. I only produce perfection. Hey, that's a pretty good slogan. Maybe I should be a business man."

The rubber balloon tail slipped between his fingers and a spray of some sticky, blue-black gunk spattered over both of them.

"Watch it!' James complained, wiping his speckled glasses on his robes. "Perfection, huh?"

Sirius shrugged. "The manufacturer is not responsible for operator incompetence."

"You do realize that's the same person, right?"

Before Sirius could respond, the sound of distant footsteps echoed around the corner.

"Hang it up, hang it up!' Sirius ordered, shoving the tied balloon into James's hands and racing to the end of the corridor where a thing string dangled, waiting to be spanned across the corridor. James hastily levitated the bulging balloon up to join its fellows dangling from the chandelier. Then he sprinted after Sirius, grabbing the collar of his robes to pull him toward the secret passage they'd planned to listen from.

But before they'd made it five steps, Professor McGonagall strolled around the corner. If her head hadn't been buried in the letter she was reading, she might have noticed the string Sirius had just managed to secure across the corridor. But as it was….

The cluster of bulging balloons fell with admirable efficiency, splattering one after other on their target. Sirius and James high-fived behind their backs, grinning at their handiwork.

"Potter! Black!"

"Oh, Professor McGonagall!" James haled jovially, ambling towards her as if he'd only just noticed she was there. "What on earth have you gotten yourself into?" He asked, goggling at the sticky sludge dripping down her face.

"You really ought to be more careful with your mail," Sirius added, stooping to pick up the letter she had dropped, also stained with the splatter.

The pair of them smiled innocently at her through the incriminating smudges streaking their faces.

Professor McGonagall did not think she had ever met a pair of students who accepted detentions so cheerfully. It worried her greatly.

**A/N: Thank you all for reviewing! :) I've never had a story break 600 reviews before, so I'm very excited! You are all wonderful people for making that happen! :) **


	123. May 29

_Varlet__: a knavish person; rascal._

**May 29, 2018**

"Hello? Is someone there? I could really use some help!" Albus Potter called desperately, fighting with the cloak that had been pulled up over his head and tied like that. He couldn't see anything and it was becoming hard to breathe through the material smothering his face. He had never hated Connor McLaggen more.

"Take care your footing!" a voice cried from somewhere to his left.

Albus froze, and it was lucky he did because if he'd taken one more step he would have tumbled down a steep flight of stairs.

"Who's there?" he asked cautiously, voice muffled by the fabric of his cloak.

"It is I, good sir!" the voice informed him rather… uninformatively.

"And can you, good sir, help me get this thing off me?" Albus asked, clawing at his cloak uselessly.

"I am afraid not," said the voice apologetically. "But fear not! Light will be yours again valiant traveler. Step back three paces and allow the bicorn to set you free."

"Um… what?" Albus asked, thoroughly confused. The only person around to help him _would _be completely mad, he thought resignedly. Or else it was one of McLaggen's lackeys messing him.

"Backwards! Three paces!" the voice instructed impatiently.

Albus put a hand out to find the wall. "Look, I'm really starting to lose oxygen here, so if you could just untie me that would be great. I won't go to squealing to McGonagall and you won't have to drag my unconscious body to Madam Pomfrey and explain what happened, deal?"

"I cannot drag you anywhere. Now backwards three paces or your life shall be lost to the clutches of that fearsome beast upon your head."

Albus would have sighed if he'd had the air in his lungs to do so. But he did as the voice instructed and moved three careful steps backward along the corridor. Something very sharp jabbed him in the back.

"Aha! You have found the bicorn!" the voice said jubiliantly. "Now tear yourself free of your attacker!"

"But can't you just –"

"Find your courage! Your life lies in your hands alone!"

Feeling slightly lightheaded, Albus hooked a corner of his trussed cloak to the sharp object jabbing him in the back and pulled with all his might until, with a loud ripping sound, it tore a wide hole in his cloak. Gasping at the fresh air, Albus yanked his shredded cloak off with some difficulty and hurled it away from him.

"A victory!" the voice cheered. "I had faith in your success in the darkest hours!"

Breathing hard, Albus looked around, ready to give his 'faithful' aid a piece of his mind. But there was no one around. He stood on a completely unfamiliar and deserted landing with nothing but a portrait of a fat gray pony and the statue of the bicorn he'd used to cut away his claok to decorate the walls.

Someone cleared their throat. "Over here, good sir!"

Albus took a step closer, squinting at the bottom edge of the pony's frame. A little knight crouched in the corner, leaning against his frame and looking expectantly at Albus.

"Haven't you some words of thanks to offer?" the knight asked indignantly and it was the voice that had guided him to freedom.

"Er, thanks?" Albus ventured.

The knight immediately waved a hand. "It was a deed any noble man would have undertaken. No gratitude is necessary."

"But you said –"

"Quickly, tell me what villainous rogue set the specter upon you?" the knight demanded, pulling out his sward with a flourish that nearly overbalanced him.

"Specter? Oh, it was just my cloak. Connor McLaggen tied it round my head with a permanent knotting spell, then he dragged me up a bunch of steps, spun me around and left me there. Must've wondered around for twenty minutes and _no one _was around. S'pose you might've saved my life," Albus added, looking nervously at the flight of stairs he had nearly tumbled down.

"Tell me where to find this rascal and I shall tear him to ribbons like your cloak-specter!"

Albus laughed and the red-faced little knight looked somewhat offended.

"Sorry," Albus apologized quickly, sitting down cross-legged and looking up at the knight's painting. "I'm sure you'd do him a number, but he's probably cackling away in his cave of a four poster, and there aren't any pictures there."

The knight's expression changed to disappointment for a fleeting moment before excitement lit his face once more and he made a flying leap for his pony (he bounced off its flank and landed sprawled on the grass, but it didn't seem to faze him).

"Lead the way, sir, and I shall stand guard in the nearest painting to the scoundrel, lie in wait for his first appearance!"

Albus considered trying to explain the whole painted-sword thing, but decided against it. He rather liked this mad little knight and didn't want to upset him by informing him his two-dimensional attack would be futile.

"Certainly, but, er… I don't know where I am. Do you know the way to Gryffindor Tower?" he asked hopefully.

"Gryffindor Tower? A quest to my old fortress! Stay near and we shall brave any peril that stands between us and our goal!"

And with Albus jogging to keep up with him, Sir Cadogan (leaving his pony to graze contentedly in its frame) dashed off down the corridor from painting to painting.

**A/N: Ah, Al. He has a certain affinity with paintings in my head. As well as something of a bullying problem with Connor McLaggen with whom he is forced to share a dorm along with McLaggen's lackeys, a weird kid called Max who looks like an owl and stares at people a lot, and a kid called Eric Compson who's okay. Al doesn't spend a lot of time in his dorm. **

**Sorry for the lack of updates :/ Graduation tomorrow so life's a little crazy! **


	124. May 30

_Skirr__: to go rapidly; fly; scurry._

**May 30, 1999**

"Ouch, hey!"

"That was my foot!"

"Watch it, Cattermole!"

Reginald Cattermole paid no attention to the destruction he left in his path: a corridor of Ministry workers scrabbling on the floor to gather their fallen papers or hopping up and down, nursing stepped-on toes. His sole goal was the lift at the end of the corridor, and he fairly flew toward it.

For weeks, now, he had been trying to make it to level four before six o'clock, a near impossibility as his shift had him tending to the windows two levels above until seven. But this was important. Almost more important than his job. And after the last two years, Reg Cattermole had decided he was done trying not to step on toes… literally.

Just before the metal lift doors clanged shut, Reginald ducked in front of a weedy-looking woman carrying a stack of papers and scurried inside. Reveling at his victory after so many failed attempts, it took him a moment to realize the lift was packed full of people and that they were all staring at him.

"Er, spontaneous lift mechanics assessment," he wheezed, out of breath from his run.

And he turned hurriedly and began examining the pulley system visible through the grated doors. He had done it. Reginald Cattermole was not used to this sort of success in his endeavors, but this time was different. He had rarely been so determined.

The lift shuddered to a halt and the disembodied voice announced their arrival on level four. People began jostling to get out as the lift doors swung open, and quite suddenly Reginald found himself face-to-face with the very reason he needed to reach this floor: a skinny teenage boy with messy black hair and all-too-familiar emerald green eyes.

Harry Potter blinked at him and Reginald realized it was because he was gaping. He had been so preoccupied with actually getting here that he had forgotten to think about what he'd do when he had. He wasn't used to things working out so smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, recognition seemed to flow over Harry's face, and for some reason it prompted Reg into speech.

"Mr. Potter? May I have a quick word?" he asked uncertainly, feeling strangely like he was back in school trying to talk to those larger-than-life popular students.

"Sure," Harry said just as uncertainly, leading the way to the side of the queue attempting to get on and off the lift. "Your name's Cattermole, isn't it? Suppose I owe you an apology." He ran a hand through his messy hair and added awkwardly, "You know, for the whole stealing-your-identity thing. It was sort of a life-or-death thing or we'd've never done it, I swear!"

Reg held up a hand to stem the flow of apology. "Actually, Mr. Potter, I wanted to thank you for that. You saved my Mary's life, saved our family. And if stealing my identity was the way you had to do it, well I'm glad I could help."

The young man before him looked a bit taken aback, but that was nothing to what he was going to look like in a minute, Reg thought.

"But, er, that's not the only reason I've been trying to track you down. You see, my wife Mary, the one whose hearing you sort of… crashed, she'd like to speak to you properly. You know, as you," he added, and seeing Harry opening his mouth hurried on. "I realize that you must have loads of people scrambling to shake your hand, Mr. Potter, but it's just that Mary, she knew your parents in school. We both did, as a matter of fact, but Mary was such good friends with your mother and realizing it was you who saved her…. Just a few minutes, Mr. Potter. Just so she could have a look at you, thank you properly herself."

Harry took in the hopeful expression of the little man before him, feeling somewhat winded by the revelation. He had rather assumed that all his parents' old friends were far beyond his reach now. Close to a year of Auror training on top of the rest of his experiences had brought on a healthy paranoia about going anywhere alone with strangers, but a name stirred in the back of his mind.

"Your wife, what was her maiden name, if you don't mind me asking?" he said tentatively.

"Erm, Macdonald," Reg told him bemusedly.

Harry grinned. "I'd love to meet her. Er, but do you mind if we pick up a couple of my mates on the way? You know, the ones who actually took your hair and impersonated you? I think they'd kind of like to apologize for that, too…."

**A/N: Alright, this was my indulgence for a part of The Life and Times. I kind of went over the moon when I realized Mary Macdonald was the same Mary Harry rescued twenty years later and I always wondered what she thought of that… didn't actually get to that part, did I? And you sort of have to have read that story to be very interested in this, but I thought about who would scurry in Harry Potter and came up with about three people: Peter Petigrew, Lily Luna Potter, and Reg Cattermole. So I picked Reg and hoped you'd at least find this a little interesting…. **

**Thanks to all my lovely, lovely reviewers! **


	125. May 31

_Haimish__: homey; cozy and unpretentious. _

**May 31, 2000**

Outside of Genie Realty (Number 49 Diagon Alley, Your wish is our command!) Mandy Montgomery was trying to close a deal. Her wide violet eyes took in her clients hungrily, like a pelican about to gulp down two of the biggest fish it had ever seen. She noticed a diamond engagement ring glittered on the girl's hand, but outside of that Mandy would ordinarily take very little interest in these scruffy teenagers, especially knowing that violently red hair and smattering of freckles indicated a Weasley connection. But even if he didn't look like much, it was impossible to take little interest in Harry Potter, and, most importantly, everyone knew he was loaded.

"Mr. Potter, I really think that manner outside of Bristol would suit you perfectly," she said, smiling broadly at him and reaching into her python skin bag to pull out the pictures of the high stone arches and handsome hedge rows. She paid no attention at all to his fiancée tucked under his arm. Those celebrities were always getting engaged and breaking it off.

"Er," said Harry, looking sideways at Ginny. "I don't think so. I mean, what would we do with all the rooms?"

"Why, fill them with distinguished guests, I'm sure," Mandy Montgomery told him as if speaking to a small child. "But if you didn't like that one, the penthouse in London would be simply marvelous. Close to work, plenty of space, _lots _of night life."

"And all that gaudy guild work," Ginny added, making a face. "Not to mention the stuck up neighbors. Did you hear that one couple in the lift? Complaining about 'Mrs. Number Nine's tarnished doorknob'."

"Well, it is a fine establishment that requires upkeep on the part of the tenants," Mandy said loftily, not looking in Ginny's direction. "But if you're not ready to commit to that, there's always –"

"The twelve achers in Sussex, the beach house in Cornwall, or even an island off the coast," Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Look, Ms. Montgomery –"

"Oh, honey, _please _call me Mandy," she interrupted with a wave of her hand.

"I don't think any of those places were exactly what we were looking for." He glanced down at Ginny.

"We're not really into flashy," she supplied helpfully.

Mandy gave her a patronizing, faux smile before turning her attention once again to Harry. "It does take some getting used to, especially when you've lived in much less. But I think you'll grow into an upper class very quickly." She pulled a tube of bight magenta lipstick out of her bag and began applying it liberally. "Tomorrow we'll look up north a little more. I think there's a wonderful castle you might like. Of course, it will take a bit of work, but it will be worth your galleons, trust me!"

Harry and Ginny made as quick of an escape as they could, practically flying down Diagon Alley once they'd extricated themselves from the sharp, brightly painted nails of their realtor.

"She gives me the creeps," Harry told Ginny as they burst out of the Leaky Cauldron into Muggle London.

Ginny rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. "She's a vulture for sure, but, Harry, if we don't find somewhere soon, we're going to be living with my parents for the rest of our lives. The wedding's in less than two weeks!"

"I'd rather live with your parents than in any of those glorified tombs. You could hear our footsteps echo in every inch of those places. It's weird."

Ginny nodded, lacing her fingers through his and swinging their intertwined hands. "But what about the beach house? It was nice. Close enough to Bill and Fleur, and I won't lie, that bathtub was practically a swimming pool, and I loved it."

Harry squirmed a little. "Don't you think it was a bit… much?"

"Well, we've got the money, haven't we?" Ginny asked softly. "I don't want to live in a castle, but we don't have to cut corners exactly, do we?"

Harry squirmed a little more. "No, we don't, but…. I dunno, is that where you want to live?"

Ginny sighed and pulled him around to face her as they reached the street corner. "Where do _you _want to live? You know, you've already got a house…."

"I already told you," Harry said quickly. "I can't live in Grimauld Place." He shuddered. "Too many memories. And besides, it's way too infested with every creepy thing on the planet to ever be really livable. Best to just let it languish."

Ginny bit her lip, looking intently at him for a few seconds. "C'mon, let's go for a walk," she said at last. And she seized his wrist and dragged him into a nearby alley where they could disapperate.

"Where are we?" Harry asked, blinking in the fading light as a vastly different setting from the towering buildings of London materialized around them.

"Just a place," Ginny said, setting off along a dirt road that wound its way through a tunnel of swaying trees and clearings dappled with wildflowers. Harry jogged a few paces to catch up with her and she looped her arm through his. "Ms. Montgomery took me out here that first day I went to see her, before she knew you were my fiancée. There's something I think you might like."

Ginny suddenly turned off the road, pulling Harry down a path he had scarcely noticed among all the shrubbery. A crooked gate hung off a white fence, half-hidden in vines, and when Ginny pushed it open, it creaked.

A small country house stood in the golden twilight. A stepping-stone path meandered up to a little front porch, a slightly lopsided chimney stuck up in the back, and the white fence ran all along the perimeter of the lot, all four corners of which Harry could see from where he stood.

"Eat-in kitchen, more than three armchairs in the living room and you won't be able to walk, one bathroom, and a potting shed out back," Ginny reeled off in a pretty good imitation of Mandy Montgomery. "But there are four bedrooms and as a bonus, a scullery and plenty of room to add on for that big family I'm supposedly having." She rolled her eyes and dropped the impersonation. "What do you think, love?"

Harry, who'd been grinning a little at her act, turned to study the house. "I think it's brilliant," he admitted, running a hand along the weathered fence and grinning again as flakes of paint came away in his hand. "But, Gin, where are we?"

Ginny sucked the inside of her cheek. "I know you don't like coming here except with Hermione on Christmas Eve," she began, and something settled in the pit of Harry's stomach. "But I just thought it was worth looking at. Godric's Hollow is where you're from, after all. It's where your parents are. I thought it might finally feel like home."

She fell silent, watching him anxiously. Harry looked back at the house, the less-than-polished surfaces, the trees that hid it from view of the country lane. He thought of a cottage not far away, of a little church and its kissing gate that he'd walked through three times.

"Don't suppose our footsteps would echo in there," he finally said, wrapping an arm around Ginny and looking down at her.

"No, they wouldn't," she smiled.

"And the bathtub probably isn't a swimming pool."

She shook her head. "But does it feel like home?"

Harry looked back at the house with its lopsided chimney and flaking paint. "I reckon it just might."

**A/N: oh, Mandy won't be too pleased, will she? I like to think this house is sort of a combination of the Burrow and Harry's parents' cottage before it got destroyed. Home for both of them. Anyway, here's your daily reminder to drop me a line! :) Thank you all!**


	126. June 1

_Armamentarium__: a fruitful source of devices or materials available or used for an undertaking._

**June 1, 1977**

"If you lot are trying to kidnap me, I can assure you you'll be in a world of hurt very soon. And Mary saw us leaving, don't forget. She can call out the dogs faster than you can blink."

"Stop snickering, Padfoot! We're not kidnapping you, Lily."

"The blindfold begs to differ."

"Come on, Red, don't you trust us by now?"

"I will never trust you, Black."

"Touché. But you trust Remus and Petey here, don't you?"

"We're almost there, Lily, I promise. Sorry about the blindfold, but this git insisted."

"I'm not giving away all our secrets! Prongs would never forgive me if I let that happen."

"You talk about him like he's the one that died, Padfoot. He's just stoped pulling pranks with you."

"Peter, you are tactless. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"_I'm _tactless? Who tried to get James plastered the night before his dad's funeral?"

"I grew up in a dysfunctional family. I only ever learned how to drink or scream away your problems, and I wasn't about to shout in Mrs. Potter's house."

"But stealing her Firewhiskey was more than acceptable."

"Remus, you're a prude. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Can we get back to why you're dragging me through the castle blindfolded?" Lily interrupted as her captors jostled her around yet another corner.

"Right," Remus said sheepishly, darting ahead to begin pacing in front of what looked like a perfectly blank stretch of wall.

"You said you wanted to help pull James out of his rut," Sirius said, leading Lily to stand squarely in front of the door Remus had just coaxed into existence. "Well, here's how you can help. Petey, my man, do the honors."

Peter scuttled forward and pushed open the heavy oak door. Only after Sirius and Remus had pulled Lily through it did Remus untie the blindfold.

Lily felt her jaw drop slightly at the sight that met her eyes. "Where are we?" she asked, turning in a circle and staring up at the crates of stockpiled sweets, butterbeer, Zonko's products, and odd gadgets Lily couldn't even identify.

"Our warehouse," Sirius grinned, spreading his arms and looking proudly at the supplies piled to the ceiling of the closet-like room.

"But how has Filch never found this?" Lily wondered, unable to keep the slight awe out of her voice. If nothing else, it was an impressive accomplishment to have kept this away from the caretaker who spent his free time prowling the corridors trying to catch mischief makers.

Sirius smirked at her expression, and Lily quickly wiped it off her face.

"As a prefect I really ought to report this, you know," she said in her sternest voice.

"You won't," Sirius said unconcernedly.

"And why not?" Lily demanded, pinning him with a stare.

"Because Remus is a prefect, too, and he hasn't spilled and you actually like him. You don't want to get him into trouble."

Lily sighed. She hated it, but Black was right. "So what does this have to do with cheering Potter up?"

Sirius strolled over to a stack of boxes labeled in a kind of shorthand Lily couldn't decipher. He had only rummaged for a second or two before Remus impatiently told him to look in the other corner, to which Peter insisted it was really the middle stack that held what they wanted. Lily began to tap her foot, wondering why she had consented to go anywhere with the Marauders. Although she didn't like admitting it, they had grown on her, but she still ought to have known better.

"Look," Remus said at last, rolling his eyes and turning away from Sirius, who now held a clucking rubber chicken for Merlin knew what purpose. "We're out of ideas, Lily," he admitted, fixing her with a beseeching look. "It's been a month, and I know this isn't… something you just bounce right back from, but it's like he's disappearing. If we tried any of this, it would just piss him of, but if it was _you_…."

He gestured toward the teetering stacks of marauding supplies as if to say 'it's all yours'.

"This is our arsenal," Sirius told her. "And for a limited time only, you've got an official pass. What d'you say, Evans? They don't come along often, I can tell you that."

Lily gave the rubber chicken in Sirius's hands a thoughtful look. "I say I can work with this, Black."

Sirius grinned. "I might just like you after all, Red."

**A/N: I do like Lily and the Marauders. :) This would be in that strange place when Lily is starting to warm up to them since she's not friends with Snape anymore, but she hasn't started dating James yet, so it's not as natural as it will become, you know? I'm not great in the prank department (I gravitate toward other genres), so I apologize for the lack of Fred/George-ish type of stuff. I love them and the Marauders and that whole part of Harry Potter, but it's just not my forte in writing. **

**Thank you all for your kind words and feedback! You are all brilliant people! :) **


	127. June 2

_Bosh__: absurd or foolish talk. _

**June 2, 1987**

Harry Potter liked the top of the tallest slide at Riverside Park. First, because it offered an unimpeded view of the entire playground, all the way from the car park on the far end to the trees lining the back fence. Second, because the twisty staircase that led to the top of the slide was too narrow for Dudley and the railings rubbed red marks into his sides whenever he tried to follow Harry up it.

Of course, it wasn't often that Harry got to go to Riverside Park. But Mrs. Figg was off visiting her sister today, so Uncle Vernon had been forced to bring him along. So here he sat at the very top of the tallest slide, bare feet swinging ten feet above the ground in the warm summer breeze (Dudley's three-sizes-too-big old sandals having slipped off ages ago). He leaned his forehead against the metal guard rail and stared down contentedly at the people running about below him.

A girl a little older than him was making a sandcastle almost right under him, using twigs and clovers as flags for the turrets. On the swinging bridge halfway along the playground, Dudley and his friends were jumping up and down wildly, raddling the chains and sending the poor little boy caught between them jerking back and forth.

But what interested Harry most was the tabby cat perched primly on the edge of an empty bench right across from him. It had been there when Harry reached the top of the slide earlier that afternoon and had not moved at all since. Not even when a mother chivying four small children had nearly sent it flying with her enormous handbag. And although it was hard to tell from so far away, Harry rather thought the animal was staring at him.

Because there was nothing really to do stuck up at the top of the slide, Harry stared back. He stopped swinging his legs, trying to be as still as the cat. It was like they were playing the statue game, seeing who would twitch first.

"Boy!"

Harry jumped so much he smacked his head against the railing. He'd been so focused on his imaginary contest with the cat that he hadn't noticed his uncle standing right underneath him, in the middle of what had been the little girl's sand castle (she looked about ready to begin wailing for her mother).

"Get down here. We're going."

Harry heaved a sigh and pulled his legs from between the bars of the guard rail. By the time he'd reached the bottom of the twisty slide, Uncle Vernon was halfway to the car, not bothering to check if Harry was following. He searched the sand for his shoes, but Dudley had probably swiped them like he usually did. Resigned to going barefoot, Harry turned to sprint after his uncle, and that was when he remembered the cat.

It still sat immobile on the bench, watching him with intent eyes. Half-convinced it was a statue after all, Harry took a step toward it, but the moment he moved, the cat sprang off the park bench and slunk away across the grass. Harry watched it all the way across the open field as he trotted to catch up to Uncle Vernon.

At the edge of the park, it slipped through the fence and skittered along the sidewalk. The cat paused at a bus stop, looked up at the sign, and sat stiffly beside it, peering expectantly up the street. Harry watched it curiously, slowing to a jog. Did cats usually act like that?

"Boy!"

His uncle's bellow tore Harry away from the cat. Uncle Vernon was already in the car, drumming his fingers impatiently on the half-open window. Harry put on a burst of speed and hurtled himself into the back seat before he was left to walk home by himself.

As he slammed the door, he looked back toward the cat. The bus had pulled up and people were shuffling off it, but between their legs, Harry thought he saw a small, furry body dart up the steps.

"That cat just took the bus!" Harry exclaimed, torn between laughter and amazement.

"Don't be ridiculous," his uncle snapped from the front seat, concentrating on backing out of the lot.

"But it did!" Harry insisted, watching the bus doors swing shut. "It waited at the bus stop and got on with the people."

"Hogwash. Cats are too stupid to do anything but get run over by busses."

"But –"

"Say one more preposterous thing and I'll stick _you _on a bus to Timbuktu."

Harry snapped his mouth shut and looked back at the retreating bus. In the back window, curled on the back of a seat, he could just make out a tabby cat that seemed to be looking in his direction.

**A/N: Thank you all for reading and REVIEWING :)**


	128. June 3

_Levigate__: to rub, grind, or reduce to a fine powder. _

**June 3, 1982**

The hot glare of the afternoon sun toppled through the wide-open oak front doors of Hogwarts, spilled across the flagstone floor, and was even brave enough to creep down the first few steps to the dungeons. But that was where it stopped. The sweltering heat of oncoming summer froze in the perpetually-damp-and-chilly potions classrooms. Students and teachers flooded the grounds, reveling in the first glorious weather truly unclouded by fear and sorrow. But in his cold, dark classroom, Severus Snape was cocooned away from it all.

The laughter and shouts from the grounds faded with the sunlight down in the deep recesses of the school. Snape stood vigil behind his desk, bottles and pouches of ingredients laid out before him. Carefully, he laid three snake fangs into a bowl, picked up a pestle, and began to grind.

Everything yielded to a pestle, if one gave it enough time. It was the surest way of obliterating something. Not as flashy as a direct blow. Not as quick either. But a guarantee of eventual demise.

Snape knew this better than anyone. He had seen it first-hand. Alcohol had wasted away Tobias Snape. Tobias Snape had ground Ilene Prince into a shell. The Dark Arts had frayed his connection with Lily until it had fallen to ashes at their feet.

It took patients, long hours of careful work in dark, gloomy places. But in this manner, even the strongest things could be reduced to nothing.

Steadily, he ground the snake fangs, watching them slowly turn to powder. He would keep wearing away at them, no matter how long it took, until he saw them as nothing.

The Dark Lord might lie in wait for years, decades even. He might bide his time, gather strength. He might dodge every blow for ages, but Snape was patient, precise, and diligent. He would see that the Dark Lord was ground to oblivion eventually, too.

**A/N: A bit more Snape for you, just to round things out. He owned this word. His name was written on it. :)**


	129. June 4

_Histrionics__: Behavior or speech for effect, as insincere or exaggerated expression of an emotion._

**June 4, 2024**

"The world has come crashing down."

Harry looked up from the _Daily Prophet_ to see his eldest son in the doorway, hands braced on the frame and a dazed look on his face.

Instantly, his thoughts jumped to a resurgence of dark magic, to an uprising in Knockturn Alley like Rita Skeeter kept writing about in the rag of a tabloid she'd secured for herself, to attacks, threats, and a resurrection of the Death Eaters.

Choking on his coffee, Harry jumped up to inspect James for damages or curses. "What happened?" he demanded.

James staggered forward and collapsed into a chair as if his legs were made of jelly, increasing his father's alarm. Looking up at Harry with a desperate expression on his face, he said haltingly, "Fred 's – got – a – _girlfriend_."

Alarm evaporated into exasperation so fast, Harry was surprised not to find his clothes steaming.

"James," he muttered, rubbing his forehead vigorously (a habit he hadn't had before his son came along). "Merlin, I thought the shop got held up or something. Don't _do _that."

"Dad," James said indignantly, straightening up. "This is _worse _than the shop getting held up. Didn't you hear what I said? Fred's got a girlfriend! Do you even realize what that means?"

"That you lost your bet with Teddy?" Harry offered, sinking back into his own seat and straightening the papers that had flown out of his hands at James's arrival.

"No – wait, damn. I forgot about that. Anyway, it_ means _I've been abandoned by my best mate." James buried his head in his arms and continued talking in a muffled voice. "We had a _plan_. Bachelors until _at least _twenty-five. Not caring if we folded our clothes or shaved or got pissed every weekend. All gone. Fred and Mariah are going to go dancing every night he's got off, get married, and turn into one of those couples that collect macramé decorations, and I'll be starving in our tiny flat with six kneezles because I don't even know what macramé is!"

"Okay, Jamie, how long exactly have they known each other?" Harry asked.

James lifted his head. "About six days. She just started working at Madam Malkin's."

Harry closed his eyes. James tugged on his elbow like he was about seven.

"Dad, this is serious! Fred betrayed me! You could show a little more sympathy."

With some effort, Harry opened his eyes again and looked at his nineteen-year-old son slumped across the table from him. James's blue eyes made him look younger than he was, especially with the light dusting of freckles he hadn't quite grown out of yet and the way that, underneath his dramatic show, his lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

"Alright, mate, let's chat," Harry said, scooting his chair closer and putting a consoling hand on James's shoulder. "First off, Fred has not betrayed you. Getting a girlfriend doesn't – and shouldn't – mean cutting all ties. Secondly, you're speaking to someone whose best friends hooked up with _each other_. Trust me; it is not the end of the world. It'll be different than it used to be, you know, in school when you lot got girlfriends and all you could do was walk around the lake or go to Hogsmeade together a few times a year, but –"

"Trust _me, _Dad, that was not all we could do," James interrupted.

Pretending he hadn't heard that comment, Harry went on, "But it isn't as though Fred's packed up and hopped a ship to America or anything. Give him a few weeks and the whole 'honeymoon' phase'll be over, and you'll have the old Fred back."

James gave his father a dubious look. "May I ask for references for this advice?"

Harry sighed and stood up to refill his coffee. "My point is don't buy six kneezles just yet."

"Of course not," James agreed, standing, too. "That's plan B. Plan A is to pick up a bird of my own. Love to stay and braid each other's hair after this wonderful heart to heart, but it's been four hours since Fred's announcement. I'm burning daylight."

"James –"

But his son was already dashing out the back door. To where, Harry thought he'd rather not know.

"I'll send Teddy to hunt him down," Ginny offered, coming through the scullery door.

"Were you listening the whole time?" Harry asked her suspiciously.

Ginny smirked. "You had it under control."

Harry shook his head. "How did we raise such a dramatic son?"

"I don't know!" Ginny positively wailed, clasping Harry's hands and dropping to her knees. "How? How did this happen to us?"

Harry rolled his eyes at his wife. "_This _one's all on you, love."

**A/N: This took a ridiculously long time to write and post. I'm so sorry. I don't have a lot of internet capability at the mo, and on Monday I'm off to France for 16 days where I will have NO time or oppertunity to engage in fanfiction activities. Don't think I've ever gone that long without logging in in the two years I've been addicted to this site. But France will keep my mind off it. **

**Anyway, this is for randomgirloutthere110, who asked for some Harry and James Sirius Potter. I know I said it would take a little while and I would make it a snapshot, but then I read this word and was like JAMES! So there you go. :)**

**Appologies in advance for the lack of updates in June. I might have to skip again and get straight to July... :/**


	130. June 5

_Apoplectic__: intense enough to threaten or cause a stroke._

**June 5, 1992**

The fifth year boys' dormitory was utterly silent. The windows were firmly locked against stray peals of laughter or shouts that might find their way up from the grounds. The door was charmed to block out any footsteps that might dare to thump past it. The clocks on all four bedside tables had been frozen within five seconds of each other. Not even the curtains around the four-posters were brave enough to flutter.

And at the center of it all, surrounded by heaps of textbooks borrowed, snagged or bartered from what looked like a dozen students besides the library, sat Percy Weasley. His horn-rimmed glasses slipped down his long nose as he bent over an ancient volume covered in miniscule text on old transfiguration theories. His lips moved silently as he sped his way along his seventh textbook in an hour, pausing now and again to jot something down on an illegible, ink-splattered piece of parchment.

In twelve hours' time he would be sitting his first O.W.L., and the concentration pooling around him would have bent any spoon into a hopeless curl of metal.

It was just as Percy reached a particularly knotty diagram involving a lot of squiggling arrows, some shifting statistics, and a porcupine, that the heavily charmed dormitory door burst open. Oliver Wood tramped in, still panting from the exhausting Quiditch practice he'd just captained and splattering mud everywhere. He groaned as he tossed his broom into the corner and collapsed on his bed with great creaking of the wooden frame.

"If we don't win the cup after this, I'm going chuck somebody – preferably a Slytherin – into the lake for the giant squid," he said between his fingers.

Percy didn't answer, but Oliver, used to his roommate's somewhat antisocial behavior around exam time, took little notice. He sat up, glanced at the stack of books piled on top of his trunk, then turned his back on them and began to rummage through the cabinet beside his bed, tossing things across the room when he couldn't find the playbook he was looking for.

It was the howling hacky sack that did it. The bright yellow thing whizzed past Percy's head an inch from his glasses, keening as it soared through the air and smacked into a tower of dusty old books. And something snapped behind Percy's eyes.

The shouting echoed down the boys' staircase all the way to the common room. A few more things got thrown, and soon Oliver Wood was fleeing his own dormitory, clutching his playbook and shouting over his shoulder, "Sheesh, lighten up, Perce! You're going to pop a vane one of these days!"

XxX

Six hours later found Wood bent over his squiggling diagrams beneath a pool of lamplight in a mostly-deserted common room, muttering to himself as he prepared for the final match of the season. He was so concentrated that he didn't notice George Weasley leap down the boys' staircase and begin crawling under tables, searching the floor.

"Hey, Oliver, you haven't seen my –"

Something snapped behind Wood's eyes, and the shouting echoed up to the top of Gryffindor tower.

**A/N: Ah, a word that fit both of them. Hope it entertained you! **


	131. June 6

_Larrup__: to beat or thrash._

**June 6, 1982**

With each dull _thwap_, a cloud of dust shimmered in the afternoon sunlight and rained down to the sparkling lawn. Petunia Dursley watched and wished the effort yielded something more satisfying than a few stray puffs of dirt. She drew back the broom handle, and drove all her might into the blow. Put all the frustration, anger, the raging injustice of it all into the action.

_Thwap_

Because no matter how far she ran, she couldn't get away.

_Thwap_

Because even though she came out on top, somehow she still lost.

_Thwap _

Because nothing in her life could be fair, could it?

And all the while those green eyes watched her. Every time she glanced toward the patio, there they were, peeping over the top of the playpen. And why was he her problem, anyway? Why did Lily's mistakes have to wind up on her doorstep? And why, she thought bitterly as she looked away, swung back for a fresh strike at the oriental rug draped over the clothesline, couldn't she bare to dump him with someone else?

**A/N: Okay, this is pathetically short for such a long absence of posting and I give you my sincere apologies for that. It's actually been done for some time now, but I disliked it, and was trying to figure out how to make it better, hence the long gap. In the end, I decided it just needed to be posted so I could move on, and hopefully it will not be my only post today. Thank you for your patience, and don't forget that I LOVE to hear from you more than anything else! :)**


	132. June 7

_Natch__: of course; naturally._

**June 7, 1997**

It was very late when Ron and Hermione finally stumbled into the common room, but to neither of their surprise, it was crowded with people. A few groups around the portrait hole fell silent, staring at them as if they were Martians. Hermione ignored them as she marched purposefully across the room toward the spiral staircases, and Ron attempted to do the same as he bustled in her wake.

By the time they made it to the other side, Ron wondered why he had ever envied the stares Harry often attracted. Half the room was watching them now. Ron thought about going up to his dormitory for half a second before dismissing the idea. It would be empty, and despite it being early summer, the night had turned cold. Without even needing to glance at each other, the two of them found a vacant window and sat down side by side on the ledge, eyes still following them.

Across the room, Dean broke the hushed silence. "Oi! Quit gaping like fish. They're not about to start doing back flips or anything."

A few people turned to scowl at him, but most looked away and struck up low, murmured conversation. For nearly the entirety of Gryffindor house there, it was eerily quiet, but the murmurs at least allowed enough cover for a whispered exchange.

At first they talked about Lupin's prediction that the school would be closed. But in that moment, this topic did not seem so earth-shattering as it might have a few hours before.

"I suppose this means it's all down to Harry, now," Hermione breathed, sagging back against the window as if the thought blew her over.

Ron nodded. Of course it was. It always had been, he figured.

"But we'll be there," he said, and it was not a question or a fierce declaration, but a statement as natural and assured if he were stating his name or reciting his birthdate. And without so much as a twitch, Hermione nodded solemnly in agreement.

It was not long after that that they went their separate ways, not another word needing to pass between them. It had been decided upon long before now, after all. What more needed to be said?

**A/N: not a whole very much longer, but there you have it. Another update today. I do wonder about what Ron and Hermione talked about when they were on their own. I suppose some of the time it had to be Harry. It wasn't really his fault, but it must have really taken the two of them to handle his problems sometimes. Anyway, review? **


	133. June 8

**Spoiler Alert: ****The idea for this chapter sparked a whole new, elaborate, multi-chapter story which I have been working on in spurts lately and which I hope to post when I have more of it laid out. This chapter contains a rather dramatic scene from the middle of that story, which is about the bombing of Knocktourn Alley, the old and new prejudices still festering in the Wizarding world, and exactly how easy it is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's much more to it than what's in this chapter, but if you want to read it when it is posted, this will give away certian important details. I realize since it's not up as of 12/27/12, most of you won't see much of a point in skipping this, in which case you now have some context and can consider it a preview.**

_Divulse__: to tear away or apart._

**June 8, 2022 **

Nothing had ever been quite this bad before. Teddy slumped against the wall at the bottom of the empty St. Mungo's stairwell hugging his knees and shivering. They kept it so damned cold in here. Why did it need to be this cold? Was it to prepare people for bad news? He put his head between his knees, closing his eyes and trying not to smell the blood that still soaked his robes. God, it had never been this bad before.

Teddy thought back to the other times he'd been here: the few times Harry had been injured badly in a case, when James had gotten into the potions cupboard when he was four and drunk half a bottle for dreamless sleep, when Gran had gotten ill last spring. None of it was as bad as this.

The door opened. A warm body slid down next to him, arms twining around his torso, a long curtain of hair falling over his arms.

"Anything?" he managed on a jagged breath.

"No," Victoire murmured apologetically.

"Harry come yet?"

She hesitated. "Yes, but he couldn't stay. Ron's staying. The whole lot of 'em are here. They'll stay."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Teddy choked.

Victoire hastily helped him lean forward, conjuring a basin and rubbing his shoulders, but nothing came up. There was nothing left in him.

"Are you sure you're alright? Have you been checked by a healer?"

"I'm fine," Teddy gasped, pushing away her solicitous hands. "It's not me you've got to –"

He broke off as a sudden sob hitched in his chest.

"Hey, come here," Victoire murmured, moving to kneel in front of him. "It's going to be alright, Teddy."

"How do you know?"

But she didn't. "You need to be cleaned up," she said instead, pulling out her wand and beginning to siphon away the scarlet that stained his hands all the way up to his shoulders, his chest. It was everywhere. "Teddy? Hey, Teddy, breathe, alright? You've got to breathe."

Teddy leaned his head back against the wall as she quietly cleaned him up. He sucked in long, slow breaths, trying to calm down, trying not to think.

"Vic?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to have kids."

She paused, wand over his heart, thrown. "What?"

"A family, kids. We're supposed to get married in two months. You should know."

"But I thought you always wanted a big family. Like Dad had, remember? And Ginny? You say we'll have our own football team and I say only if you give birth to half of them."

Teddy gritted his teeth and shook his head. "We _can't_."

"Alright, now is not the time for a conversation like this. You've been in shock. Let's just get through this. We've got years and years to talk about kids."

"Don't you understand?" he demanded, eyes snapping open. "My life is Harry's life. Our parents both died at the very end of a war fighting for us. We both had to find families to adopt us in, both fell in love with Weasleys to be a part of those families for real, both became Aurors. And thanks to us, those families got torn apart. For Harry it was Fred, for me…. So I can see twenty years into my future and if we have those kids and that white picket fence and a happily ever after, it's just going to get ripped away. I can't raise kids just to lose one of them, just _knowing _it's going to happen and waiting. We can't have kids, Vic. We can't do it, not if you marry me."

Victoire said nothing for a moment. Then, just when Teddy expected her to pull off the ring he'd put on her finger fifteen months before and fling it at the wall, she said, "Teddy Lupin, that is the biggest load of dragon dung I've ever heard,"

"Vic –"

"No, you listen to me," she cut him off fiercely, leaning down until they were almost nose-to-nose. "First of all, your life is your own and the only reasons it resembles Harry's is because he raised you and your fathers were best friends and made similar choices. Second, what happened to Al isn't your fault, you self-centered prat."

"It was my shift, Vic. If I'd been there –"

"You'd be dead, Teddy."

"I'd've _seen _him, and I'd've dragged him out of there and back to where he was supposed to be, and Travis wouldn't be –"

"You'd be dead, Teddy, and we'd all be a lot worse off than we are right now, me in particular, so that'll be the end of you feeling guilty. Third, nothing has been torn apart just yet. Al's going to pull through –"

"You didn't see him," Teddy gasped, holding his arms out as if he were still carrying Albus. "God, Vic, there was just so much blood – everywhere."

"I know, baby, I know." She put her hands on either side of his face. "But that's my little cousin back there, and I'm not giving up on him until they tell me it's over and they've closed the curtains. Nothing is getting ripped apart, Teddy, do you hear me?"

She was almost shouting in his face, hands still pressed against either side of his head. He nodded, taking great, heaving breaths.

"Good."

Victoire collapsed against him, burying her wet face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her. God, things had never been this bad before.


	134. June 10

_Mignon__: small and pretty; delicately pretty._

**June 10, 2005**

"Uncle Charlie, did you love my Mum?"

Charlie Weasley nearly slipped on the steep muddy river bank he was scrambling up. Clutching a rough branch in his large, callused hands and breathing hard, he looked up at the little boy squatting in the tall grass at the top of the slope. Teddy was running his hands along the fuzzy tops of the cattails, looking thoughtfully into the sluggish current of the river below, sunlight making his currently-golden hair into a halo.

"Yeah, I guess I did," he grunted, redoubling his effort to heave himself up the bank.

"Like my dad did?"

Charlie sighed internally. He should have known, when the kid practically jumped at his tentative offer of an afternoon fishing, that he wouldn't get out of this unscathed. With a mighty effort, Charlie made it up the bank and collapsed beside his small companion (who, with a good leg-up, had scampered up the slope like a rabbit).

"No, not like your dad," he said, staring up at the clouds. "Not really. I mean, for maybe a second I might have thought…." Charlie trailed off. "What made you ask that?"

"Bill says you did," Teddy informed him matter-of-factly, swiveling around to stare intently down at him.

Charlie shook his head. "Big brothers like to make things up to heckle their little brothers." He rolled over and climbed laboriously to his feet, offering Teddy a hand.

"Did you ever give her a heart?" Teddy asked, taking the hand and letting Charlie swing him upright.

"No," Charlie laughed. "I wasn't much for valentines. Flowers. Girls like flowers. You can never go wrong with flowers. I gave your mum a bouquet."

XxX

"About time you showed up."

"Good to see you too, big brother," Charlie grinned as Bill opened the door for him.

Bill grabbed his little brother in a rough, one-armed hug. "Thought you got lost up the river again."

"That was _once,_ and I was five," Charlie defended. "Anyway, Mum told you I was taking the kid out?"

"Yeah, speaking of, where is he? She said you were bringing him."

Charlie gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "Ran off into the yard. Said he'd be in in a bit. Cute kid, he is. Funny. A lot like his mum."

Bill nodded, understanding the wistful look that was just barely detectable in Charlie's eyes.

"It's nice you make time for him when you come round," he said quietly. "And that you come round for Vic. Used to take the end of the world to bring you back."

"Yeah, well," Charlie muttered. He looked away, coughed into his fist. "Kids grow up fast. Stay away too long, and they're grown up and saving the world and you don't even know who they are."

"Victoire thought you weren't going to make it," Bill said, changing the subject.

"What? And miss the best ballet recital of the year? Where is the bell of the ball, anyway?"

"Uncle Charlie!" someone squealed.

Charlie barely had time to open his arms for the pink, ribbony blur that flew down the stairs at him.

"Hey, squirt!" he beamed, squeezing his niece hard before kneeling down to get a good look at her. Victoire spun compliantly, her feathery pink tutu swirling, dainty fingers laced above her head and her toes pointed like a proper ballerina. She looked like a porcelain fairy with her strawberry blond hair braided around her head.

"Mummy made me fancy," she told him, giggling.

"Well I can see that," Charlie said, sitting back on his heels and pretending to frame her with his fingers. "You'll be the prettiest one there."

Victoire beamed. Then she caught sight of something over Charlie's shoulder.

"Teddy!" she cried, prancing to the door like a little pony. "Are you gonna watch me dance?"

Teddy stood on the porch, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, one hand tucked behind his back. "Here," he said abruptly, and he produced a slightly bedraggled-looking bouquet of wildflowers, which he shoved in Victoire's face. "You know. 'Cause of the show and everything."

Victoire trilled with delight, snatching her bouquet and twirling off to show Dominique in the kitchen, completely missing the wink Charlie tipped toward Teddy.

**A/N: Okay, was going to make this Charlie coming to see Victoire for the first time, but I rather like the idea of him being there when she's born, you know, for the anniversary and everything. And then I got talking to my cousin, the awesome Bookworm1256, and she inspired this. Hope you like it! :) I figure Charlie made an effort to be there for Victoire and the rest of Bill's kids at least. And I think for Teddy, too, because of Tonks, but he was never really around like the rest of the family. **


	135. June 11

_Ravelment__: entanglement; confusion._

**June 11, 1977**

"No, no, no, you're getting it all wrong," Sirius sighed, thudding his mug of butterbeer on the table and sloshing foam everywhere. "_I _didn't tell him anything, _Prongs _did, see?"

Peter furrowed his brow. "So you –" he said, looking at James.

"No, Petey, I wasn't _there_, remember? I was with Moony."

"But _I _was with Remus!" Peter exclaimed. "You were with Mary!"

"Exactly. I was with Moony, you were with Macdonald."

"_No_, I was with Remus!"

"I'm pretty sure it was Padfoot." Sirius chipped in.

"_You're _Padfoot!"

"Oh, yes, you're right, it _was _Padfoot. I remember," James agreed, looking at Sirius.

"So Prongs was the one that let it slip?" Remus asked, stirring his drink.

Sirius nodded. "Well, the first time, but it wasn't until Wormtail came round and said something that it really hit him what I'd said."

"You just said James was the one –"

"Prongs was the one," Sirius corrected.

"But James _is _Prongs, and I wasn't _in _Honeydukes today! It's not my fault!"

"No one said it was," Remus assured him soothingly.

"But you just said –"

At that moment, Lily Evans appeared with a fresh tray of drinks, long red hair bound in a thin braid down her back.

James grabbed a mug, beaming at her. "You've redeemed yourself, Wormtail."

"I haven't done anything!" Peter exclaimed, red-faced.

Lily slid into the booth beside Remus with a laugh. "You lot are easy to pacify. Just give you a bottle full of alcohol and all is right with the world. Even if the shopkeepers did _mysteriously _discover a secret passage leading to Hogwarts in their cellar that a certain group of boys has been using to steel from them."

"You're too cute to stay mad at, Wormtail," James toasted, winking.

"_I'm _Wormtail!" Peter almost bawled.

James chuckled. "Yes, and I'm that idiot Prongs who gave everything away."

"He's not an idiot," Sirius defended, raising his head with dignity. "Just bad timing. If Wormtail here hadn't been calling about like no one could hear her –"

He tugged playfully on Lily's braid and Peter watched in amazement as she didn't swat his hand away.

"But _I'm _Wormtail!" he howled.

All four of the others looked at him as if he were delirious.

"You're Walter," they said together.

Peter gave up, slumping forward to the roar of his friends' laughter.

**A/N: So… this may seem random, but basically what happened was Sirius thought he was being sly and made some remarks to the owner of Honeydukes about their raiding of the cellar after hours, you know, all cryptic to be a smartarse. Then Lily showed up and 'whispered' to him 'ambiguously' about the secret passage, and… well, the owner got all interrogative and wanted to know their names so Sirius started calling her Wormtail 'cause of her braid and… well, you can get the rest I reckon. This is for erm31323 who asked for a little Marauders' chaos. Hope you liked it!**

**And yes, I do plan to keep working on this with last year's words whenever I get a chance, but school resumes soon and I've got contests to enter in the hopes of getting money and scholarships to find, so… dunno when I'll have time, but hopefully I will! **


	136. June 12

_Fantast__: a visionary or dreamer. _

**June 12, 2000**

In her memory, a little girl poked her head around the shed, lacy curtains borrowed from the scullery window draped over her fiery hair.

"Are you ready?" she called.

Her brothers rolled their eyes and did their best to look tortured. Fred stood beneath his mother's trellis, yanking at the stiff collar of the dress robes Bill had 'accidentally' left in his wardrobe. Ron was positioned just a bit to the side, digging in the dirt with the warn toe of his boot and not looking quite as tearfully happy as Ginny thought a big brother and best man should as he watched his baby sister walk down the aisle. George was leaning against the shed beside her, staring vacantly at the sky and fiddling with their father's spare reading glasses.

Ginny heaved a sigh. "If you're not going to do it right, then don't do it at all!" she huffed irritably.

"Believe us, we'd rather not," George muttered, wrinkling his nose at the flower Ginny had pinned to his sweater.

"Mum said we had to play whatever game you picked. She didn't say we had to be happy about it," Fred grumbled from across the yard.

Ginny stuck her tongue out. "Well maybe next time you won't use my doll when you try to send something to space with your fireworks!"

"Yeah, yeah. Oi, Ronniekins. Start the music so we can get this over with," Fred ordered.

Ron scowled at him, but he pulled the plastic kazoo Bill had won him at the summer festival in the village last year out of his pocket and began buzzing something that sounded vaguely like a wedding march. Ginny smoothed the white nightgown she'd elected to wear as a wedding dress and held out her arm for George to take. Reluctantly, he perched the glasses on his nose in imitation of their father and dragged Ginny around the shed and up the aisle of dining room chairs he and Fred had lugged out into the yard.

"You're going too fast," Ginny complained, but by then she was already at the trellis and it wouldn't do to go back up the aisle unwed.

She carefully laid her bouquet of wildflowers (picked from the field across the road) behind her and turned to face her imaginary groom. Fred was busy swatting at a fly, and Ginny had to step on his toes to get his attention.

"Oh, right. Er, we're held hostage here today to witness the imaginary union of Ginny and a very lucky bit of air." He turned to the empty place across from his sister and stuck out a hand. "Lucky bit of air, thanks for joining us. If you get sick of my sister, I don't think you'll have to file for divorce to get away from her."

"Fred!" Ginny snapped.

Fred rolled his head back to look up at the sky. "Fine. Do you, Ginevra Molly Weasley, take – who's the bloke you're marrying?"

"Harry Potter," Ginny answered primly and with utter conviction.

Her brothers all exchanged looks, eyebrows quirked. Ron started snorting with laughter first.

"What?" Ginny demanded. "He's our age! And he's a hero. _And _he's cute. Stop laughing! I can marry him if I want!"

"Alright. It's your delusional wedding," George chortled. "But you've only seen baby pictures of him. He's got a great scar on his face, now."

"It _is _my wedding, and that's your brother-in-law you're talking about," Ginny huffed, crossing her arms.

"Whatever," George sighed. "Just enjoy your dream wedding with the invisible Mr. Potter because it's about as close to him as you'll ever get."

… her memory faded…

Ginny stood at the edge of a milling crowd of her friends and family beneath a golden canopy. Her white dress swirled around her in the faint summer breeze, her vale fluttered down her back, covered in the beautiful white lilies her mother had spent all spring stitching into it. Across the pavilion she could see George gulping down a drink with the rest of her brothers, snickering over something. Ron glanced up from his best man speech he kept pouring nervously over long enough to shoot her a real, proud, big brother grin.

"Hey."

A smile spread over her face as she turned and found herself wrapped up in somebody's arms.

"Hey yourself, Mr. Potter."

Harry grinned down at her. "Where've you been hiding, _Mrs._ Potter?"

"Mm, I like the sound of that," Ginny whispered, standing on her toes to kiss him.

"Me too," Harry agreed, smiling against her lips.

Ginny tucked her head against his shoulder, and they began to sway to the music, making their own slow dance out of the fast tempo. "Did you know this is the seventh time I've been married to you?"

"Or really?" Harry laughed. "And where was I the first six times?"

"Probably sitting in some stuffy Muggle classroom wishing you knew a fiery redhead like me," Ginny told him. "You see, _I _knew it was coming to this since I was seven. You were about eleven years behind."

"Well I'm glad I finally made it to the ceremony," he said amusedly.

Ginny pulled back just enough to take in that quirky half-grin, the way his eyes danced when he was laughing at her. "I'm kinda glad, too,"

**A/N: And there you have it! A birthday gift for HollyheadHarpy7, who requested a little Harry/Ginny :) I don't usually write fluff, but I hope this satisfied all you shippers out there who saw the characters for this story and might have been feeling a bit led on. HollyheadHarpy's b-day was actually the 16****th****, but she was nice enough to let me use my original wedding date and this particular word. I hope you enjoyed it! **

**On a different note, it was recently brought to my attention that the chapter for Teddy's birth (April 23) has been replaced by the chapter for April 28 (now on here twice). I'm not sure how that happened, but it really sucks because I didn't have that chapter saved anywhere. I don't suppose you'll be able to help me, but I thought I ought to apologize to anybody who's read the chapter for April 28 twice and missed out on the Teddy chapter. I think I'm going to have to attempt to rewrite it, which is a real bummer. **

**Anyway, reviews would cheer me up a bit. :)**


	137. June 15

_Cunctation__: delay; tardiness._

**June 15, 1992**

"Dumbledore!"

Professor McGonagall's voice drilled through the heavy oak door of his office, sharp and impatient and threatening to bring it down in woodchips if he did not get it out of her way. But still he sat for another minute, placid behind his desk, putting off the moment.

"I know you're in there, and if you don't open this godforsaken door, I'll –"

Dumbledore raised his wand, there was a click, and the godforsaken door swung inward, revealing a very thin-lipped McGonagall.

"You wish to speak to me, Minerva?"

Not missing a beat, McGonagall swept into the room, sharp eyes trained on the Headmaster. "Yes, I very much would, Dumbledore. I would like to know what exactly you've told the adults responsible for Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter."

"I do not see an urgent need to contact them," Dumbledore said mildly, interlocking his long fingers on the desk before him.

"No urgent need –" McGonagall repeated indignantly. "Potter's lying unconscious in the hospital wing! Don't you suppose his aunt and uncle would like to know _why_?"

"Harry woke up this afternoon, Minerva, and will be quite alright. I've spoken to him and to Poppy, who assured me he will make a full recovery before the end of term. There is no reason to alarm his relatives unduly."

"He's awake?" she demanded, temporarily distracted.

"Yes, sitting up and talking and everything. Although it is more difficult to get past Poppy to see him than to get backstage at a Weird Sisters concert."

"Well, you'd better thank heaven and above that there was no lasting damage," she told him severely.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," said Dumbledore with polite bewilderment.

"Honestly, Albus, how could three _first-years _find out about the stone and then break through our best enchantments without you knowing something about it, especially when one of those three happened to be Harry Potter?"

"You overestimate my omniscience, Minerva. There is a great deal that goes on in Hogwarts that I don't know of," he said gravely.

"But you knew about this," she insisted fiercely. "It's been three days, Dumbledore. When do you plan on informing the parents of our resident sleuths precisely what their children accomplished this year?"

"I don't believe I would be doing Mr. Potter or Miss Granger a service by writing home about them. It's difficult for those who have not attended Hogwarts to understand what exactly the education entails. I believe I'll leave it up to Harry and Hermione to reveal as much as they wish to their families."

McGonagall folded her arms and raised a thin eyebrow. "And what about Weasley? He's got three brothers among the gossiping student body. You can't truly be hoping word of this debacle won't reach _his _parents? What do you plan on saying to Molly Weasley when she discovers her twelve-year-old son faced a vicious, three-headed dog, was nearly strangled by plants, and received a concussion from a great marble chess set all inside the castle _you _oversee?"

"I suppose you'd appreciate my omitting it was your chess set."

"Dumbledore! This is serious! Three first-years were nearly killed and you have yet to discuss the matter with their parents."

"My dear Professor McGonagall, I believe you'll agree that, given the already-impressive track record of these particular first-years, they were not in quite as much danger as most ordinary eleven and twelve-year-olds would have been. I believe there is very little we can do short of locking them in the dungeons to prevent something like this from happening. If Molly and Arthur, or Mr. and Mrs. Granger or Dursley do discover anything that perturbs them, I will be more than willing to discuss it with them. However, I rather believe their children prefer they be left unawares."

McGonagall surveyed him with a hard expression. "Very well. I hope for your sake you're correct. But," she added severely, pointing a finger at the headmaster, "if I ever discover proof that you knew what those three were up to before they went through that trapdoor, I will personally be writing very detailed letters to each of their families."

And with that she marched out of the office, leaving Dumbledore somewhat more rattled than he appeared.

**A/N: Hey! Two updates in twelve hours! Ah! Don't get used to it. I've got three massive papers twisting my gut at the moment plus a Latin exam. Anyway, June seems to be a month for conversations with Dumbledore. Second angry woman to storm into his office in the last few chapters. It's just because all the books end in June and everything comes to the surface then. You know, I always read that line at the end of Sorcerer's Stone when Molly asks if they had a busy year as if she knew everything that happened. But given her later behavior over their safety, I can't imagine she knows very much at all. **

**Well, thank you all so very much for your lovely reviews! Love you all! And to those of you who reside in the United States alongside myself, hope you had a fabulous Thanksgiving and that you've got a lot to be thankful for. :) **


	138. June 16

_Sardanapalian__: excessively luxurious. _

**June 16, 2003**

"Six months of exhausting my feminine charms and at last I'm on the verge of penetrating the recluse's oh-so-mysterious and private abode."

The girl twirled on elegant legs, satiny blue robes spinning out, and flashed him a pretty, flirtatious smile. Her blond hair fell in shimmering ringlets around her china doll's face, eyes sparkling. But the stiff young man beside her did not seem to share in the light that surrounded his companion. He could not have been more than a couple years older than her, three or four at most, but he held a subdued solemnity that contrasted with his youth, and hers too.

"I've been on house arrest for four years, my dear," he said edgily. "It's not as if my sentries would have much approved of me holding balls in the garden."

The girl sighed and looped her arm through his. "Oh Draco, _do _try to be less of a killjoy. This is a _date_, darling. You're bringing me home to meet your mother and enjoy a pleasant meal in privacy for once. Let's try not to spoil it before it's begun, alright?"

She pulled him to a stop in the middle of the pavement, causing people to have to swerve around them to avoid a collision, and stood on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek. For the briefest of moments, the hard line of his mouth softened, as if he might smile.

"If you insist," he murmured. Then he clasped her hand and led her into the closest vacant alley, turning on the spot, vanishing and taking her with him.

It was not the stateliness of the manor that surprised Astoria. True enough she had not lived in an ancient palace like so many of her classmates had, but she had been to plenty of formal gatherings in them. And she had seen pictures of the infamous Malfoy Manor in the _Daily Prophet_ many times as news of the Malfoys' part in the war and their sentencing had crept in and out of the public eye. But what filled the vast, endless rooms did cause those delicate eyebrows of hers to rise.

"You made it sound like the courts drug your family over the coals for every penny you're worth," she accused, stopping before a full-size suit of golden armor studded with diamonds and emeralds as big as her palm.

"Well…." Draco said uncomfortably. "That might have been an exaggeration on my part. They _did _use our vault to fund nearly every reconstruction project the Ministry oversaw, but it would take three times that much to empty it. Our pockets aren't nearly as deep as they used to be, though."

"Mm-hm," said Astoria as they rounded a corner and he pushed open the door to the drawing room. An ornate fireplace with finely-carved, silver serpents winding up its sides dominated one wall while ancient and no doubt rare, leather-bound books covered another. Several thick, patterned rugs blanketed the stone floor, and high-backed, winged armchairs flanked a polished mahogany desk. Jeweled ornaments sparkled from the windowsills, strange furs hung on pegs, and a large bronze panther hung over the fireplace, rubies glittering in its eyes. "I can certainly tell your bank account took a hit. Tell me, what exactly does one do with a three-foot-tall, jade brazier?"

"Well it isn't as though we need to start selling the estate to get by," Draco said, an automatic defensive sneer curling into his voice.

It didn't seem to faze Astoria, though. "What I don't get," she said, bending over to examine a pair of stained-glass spectacles. "Is why you would want to live with so much useless clutter. Honestly, how many things in here have you actually used? I would feel as if I were suffocating if I had to sit in this room every day."

Draco looked around the over-stuffed room. "It's part of having money," he shrugged. "You buy things because you can."

"Well I don't like it much. I mean, if you sold everything in here you don't need, you would probably have half your losses back," Astoria said pragmatically.

"I suppose we would," Draco conceded. In all honesty, he had never thought much about the trappings of luxury his parents had collected most of their lives.

"So why don't you?"

"Mother." He was surprised how readily he answered. "We might have deep pockets worth boasting about again, but we would be living as if we were common. She's lost a great deal. I wouldn't take away her _feeling_ of owning the world, on top of not actually owning it."

"That's a kind gesture," Astoria observed, looking at him with a tenderness that brought a pink tinge to his cheeks. "But when we start raising a family here," she went on briskly, "it will all go down to your mother's villa in the south of France."

She gave him a dazzling smile and brushed past him out into the corridor.

Draco blinked. Then he wheeled around and set off after her. "Wait a moment, when we do what…?"

**A/N: I stayed up extra late to post this for you. I was in the mood to dabble with Draco and Astoria and this word could fit no other in my head. :) Oh yes, and Katrina Roxanne? I haven't forgotten you, I promise! Just a bit blocked on the word for some reason. I shouldn't be, it's fairly easy, but I'll get it up soon, I promise! :)**

**Anyway, please review! It's my goal to break 1,000 before I leave for college in a month. That would be fairly amazing and you could be part of the awesomeness with just a few sentences! **


	139. June 19

_Pensee__: a reflection or thought._

**June 19, 1986**

The day was a picture. The lawns rolled emerald green right down to the lake shining with brilliant sunlight.

"Minerva," he'd said like he'd so often done, down on one knee with a bouquet of wildflowers instead of a ring. "Marry me. Make me a truly happy man."

The weather had been fine, the children had started laughing again, she had survived and so had he. Was it all just to wait for something that had already slipped through her fingers?

"Alright," she'd said and he'd nearly toppled over in surprise. "Yes, let's marry and be happy."

So they had.

The lane was clear and bright with flowers and life all in bloom. It might have been the middle of nowhere with the castle out of sight until the road curved and the village blossomed among the hills. It was a picture, smoke rising mistily from chimneys, villagers out strolling in the sweet summer breeze, shops with their doors thrown open invitingly.

"What do you think of that one?" he'd asked, pointing down to a thatched roof barely visible beyond the post office.

"It's not too big is it?" she'd asked skeptically.

"Looks tiny from here," he'd said, shielding his eyes against the sun.

"Well, you have looked at it, haven't you?"

"Of course not. Shall we sign the deed?"

"How do you even know it's for sale?"

"I think we'll get lucky."

The crumbling stone church was a picture, unchanged in three years, in three hundred, really. Daffodils spilled from the flowerbeds around the cracked stone steps, carved gargoyles perched on the roof, occasionally flapping about and changing places for a more interesting view.

The hills had echoed with peals of the bells as they burst from the carved oak doors arm in arm. The small crowd of guests had clapped and cheered. From the back, came a loud wolf whistle.

"Mr. Lupin!" she'd called.

"Sorry, Professor!" but he'd been laughing.

The house was a picture. The hummingbirds still fluttered among the window boxes, where flowers still bloomed. The trowel still lay where he'd dropped it, his boots were still beside the door. She pushed open the gate and it still creaked.

He had straightened up as she came out the door, dressed for school without a hair out of place, hat pinned on straight.

"You're a picture," he'd said, eyes twinkling. "See you tonight."

And he'd gone back to working in the garden.

The house was empty, now. She hadn't slept there since. All that was left was to leave the key for the new tenants. There was the fireplace in front of which they had sat side by side late into the night. There was the staircase on which their nieces and nephews had hung their stockings. There was the back window where, huddled together, they'd watched the rain.

She had just turned to leave, lock the door on this place, when something caught her eye. She'd missed something and it still stood propped in the corner. She crossed to it and picked it up. And there they were, not young, not innocent, but happy. That was all they were now: a picture.

**A/N: One more for 2012. At least, it's still 2012 for me. This one's for Muggle Creator. It may not have been exactly what you were thinking of, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same! Thanks for the awesome reviews! This was Pottermore stuff. I'm not sure how many people have read it, but I think enough for this to not be confusing. **


	140. June 20

_Noctilucent__: visible during the short night of the summer._

**June 20, 1967**

Arthur Weasley woke abruptly to a rap on his window.

"Wha's'at?" he mumbled groggily, fumbling for his glasses.

The rap came again, more impatient. Arthur shoved his glasses on and made to slide out of bed, but got tangled in the sheets and fell instead. Groaning, he picked himself up and staggered over to open the window.

"Took you long enough. Budge up so I can get through."

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here?" he asked, goggling as none other than Molly Prewett scrambled over his sill.

"Coming to get you," she told him. "Get some clothes on, you can't leave the house in pajamas."

"But where are we –"

"Hurry, or we'll miss it!" she interrupted, pulling open his dresser drawer and flinging robes at him.

"How did you even get here? You live in Essex, don't you?"

"I apparated of course."

"But you're only sixteen!" Arthur spluttered, quite forgetting that he was halfway through getting dressed.

"So? They let sixth years do it in the village. I watched your lessons," she said over her shoulder, keeping her eyes closed as he changed.

"So? Molly, that's illegal! You could splinch yourself!"

"Quite right, which is why you're going to have to handle the rest of the traveling tonight. Are you ready yet?"

"But where are we –"

"Back to my house. I'll show you from there."

Molly turned around as Arthur finished doing up his robes and took his hand. He gave her a dubious look. She just smiled and squeezed his fingers.

"You're just going to have to trust me, Arthur Weasely."

"Alright then," he sighed. His grip tightened around her hand as he spun and a moment later they were standing in front of the Prewetts' small cottage nestled in a grove of willow trees.

Molly didn't drop his hand when they landed. Instead, she pulled him forward, looking up at the sky through the branches above.

"It hasn't started yet, but it will soon."

"What is it?"

"Come on!"

Arthur laughed as they ran along the rutted, twisting forest path. "Are you kidnapping me?"

"Yes, hurry!" Molly ordered through her giggles.

Finally they burst out of the trees and charged up a small, grassy slope, the velvet sky unfurling before them. Molly threw herself down on the soft ground without letting go of his hand, and he was pulled down half on top of her.

"You're mad," he laughed. "What is it you've dragged me out here for?"

Molly gave him an impish smile, rolling so that she pinned him. She dropped her lips to an inch above his, their noses almost touching. Then she rolled away.

"Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

They lay side by side on the hilltop, staring up into the boundless heavens. They were carefully not touching, but Arthur could feel warmth radiating from her, just inches away. He listened to the wind rustling through the woods, fell into glittering sky above, let the heady scent of wildflowers smother him, but still he was acutely aware of Molly just beside him, could still feel her on top of him.

And then something streaked across the sky. Arthur pushed himself up on his elbows as Molly gasped. One, two, three more streaks shot blindingly bright from one edge of the dome to the other, leaving fiery trails behind.

"It's amazing," Molly breathed.

He looked sideways at her, dusted silver in the starlight, fiery light flashing across her face. "Yeah… it is."

He felt her fingers slide back into his and swallowed painfully.

"Molly… I'd really like to kiss you right now."

She was still gazing up at the sky. "So do it."

Arthur bowed his head close to hers. "I would if you're little brothers weren't watching."

Molly whipped around. There was a frantic rustling and muffled giggles as two shadows rolled back to the bottom of the hill.

"Fabian and Gideon Prewett, get your little bums up here right now."

There was silence.

"Come on, then. Now!" Molly called sternly.

Slowly, the shadows crawled back up the hill until the identical faces of Molly's ten-year-old brothers grew into distinction, mixed between mischievous and apprehensive.

"What are you doing out here at this time of night?" she scolded.

"What are _you _doing?" one of them shot back, and Arthur held back a laugh at how alike Molly and her brothers were.

"I'm nearly of age. I can do what I like," Molly told them primly. "You lot are little sneaks."

"We're sorry," the other one said in a tremulous voice, looking at his sister with wide blue eyes. "We only wanted to see the meteors, but it's scary in the dark, so we stayed close to you."

Molly instantly softened. "You're a bunch of suck-ups, too," she said, but they could all tell she'd been won over. "Alright, then, come up and watch the rest of it with us and we won't tell mum, hm?"

The boys grinned. They scrambled up to wedge themselves between Molly and Arthur. One curled up under Molly's arm, using her stomach as a pillow, the other leaned against Arthur's knees as if he'd done it a hundred times. Arthur started. He was the youngest in his family by several years. He'd always been awkward around children. He tentatively reached down and ruffled the kid's hair.

The four of them settled in to watch the universe's brand of magic.

**A/N: Yeah, so I know, this is total whiplash. Hope you aren't getting tossed about too much. But Molly and Arthur. They always had kids between them, lol. It was just there from the start. Thank you all for your wonderful comments! Love you!**


	141. June 24

_Instauration__: renewal; restoration; renovation; repair._

**June 24, 1998**

It wasn't the same. It would never be again. This lesson she had learned many times over in the last weeks. The last years, really. It was something, Ginny supposed, all children must learn as they grow up, regardless of the circumstances. But somehow, standing amid the wreckage of stone and marble in a once-familiar corridor of her once-familiar school, the message seemed to take on a wholly unnecessary drama.

Or maybe it was necessary, Ginny thought, closing her eyes. But she could still _feel _the devastation. There was a warm breeze that should never have found its way so far into the cool stone labyrinth, a sunny glow that didn't belong in dim stone passages lined with a handful of narrow windows. Perhaps it had to come to this, to Hogwarts itself being shook to its very foundations, the beginning of it all, to finally be pulled up by the roots.

Ginny listened to the silence. In other, distant parts of the castle she knew professors and students were hard at work. But here it was peaceful. If you kept your eyes closed. This was a bearable silence. At home it was no longer a circus of noise and people, but the quiet was unnatural there. And at home things looked exactly as they always had, but of course they never could be again.

She took a slow breath and opened her eyes. And even though seeing the destruction laid out before her sent an ache throbbing in herchest, there was something _good _about _seeing _it all instead of just feeling it everywhere she went.

Dust swirled in the flood of sunlight streaming through cracks and gaps in the walls. Ginny ran a hand lightly along the jagged chunks of stone, feeling the grit beneath her fingertips. Then she pulled her wand from her pocket and waved it over the scattered shards, muttering "_Repairo_." A few pieces flew back together seamlessly.

Baby steps.

She repeated the process again and again, and each time a few more fell into place. Down in the entrance hall, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick stood back to back, raising new stones for the crumbled walls, chasing the rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and citrines that had spilled from the cracked hourglasses to fill the cracks in the floor, to glitter like the tears and bloodshed of battle until the walls came crashing down again. Strings of students, eleven to seventeen, lined corridors, rummaging through debris to salvage paintings and statues. On a section of new wall on the third floor, Dean Thomas sat back and examined the image he had sketched with the ashes of a burned-out classroom.

It wasn't the same, of course. How could it be? But there was a sound reassurance in seeing the world putting itself back together.

**A/N: Want to know what Dean sketched? That stayed on the wall long after the memory of the war had faded with its generation? I imagine something like this: a coin flipping in the sky as dawn breaks, one side stamped with the letters DA, the other a soaring phoenix (it flips in the picture, like all good wizarding art) all of this inside a lightning bolt :D **

**Okay, Ginny-centric for WritersNeverDie who asked for some post-war, pre-children Ginny. It's very post-war and very pre-children, so I hope that's okay! Thank you all for your reviews and character suggestions! I love hearing what you think about characters and I'll try to work through your requests as best I can! Love you all! **


	142. June 26

_Glutch__: to swallow._

**June 26, 1995**

Dumbledore had expected it sooner, the firm rapping on his office door. He let her have the satisfaction of the sharp, decisive pounding against the polished wood before calling a calm admittance, and met his visitor's expression of set determination without surprise.

"Good morning, Molly," he said politely.

"Good morning, Professor," Molly Weasley offered cordially. "I hoped I could speak to you about something. It's rather important."

Dumbledore nodded to the chair in front of his desk and folded his hands over the papers before him as she settled herself across from him, giving her his full attention.

"I've spoken to my husband," she began in a respectful tone, though the firmness of her knock resonated in her voice. "And we would like to take Harry straight home with us when the term ends in a few days."

She looked like there was rush of things she wanted to say, but pulled herself back to gauge his reaction. He merely pressed his fingertips together and went on observing her passively, waiting for her to speak her peace.

"Professor, you and I both know how Harry feels about returning to that house ordinarily, and how his aunt and uncle feel about it, too. It must be the worst place to send him after… after everything that's happened. I spent most of yesterday in and out of the hospital wing, and I'm quite worried about him. I know we aren't his legal guardians, but Arthur and I would like to take him for the summer so that he'll have someone to help him deal with all of this, two adults he knows hold his best interests at heart and whom he can turn to at any time. I'm afraid his, ah… family… won't provide that."

Dumbledore watched her for another moment before regretfully delivering the answer he had been anticipating for more than a day.

"I'm very grateful for your generosity and compassion, Molly, and I'm sure Harry is, too. But I'm afraid he must return to his aunt and uncle's home as soon as term is out. As you said, they are his legal guardians, and he has not seen them since last august."

And as he'd also anticipated, Molly gaped at him. But only for a moment. Then her jaw snapped shut, her cheeks colored, and her normally-kindly eyes flashed.

"You know as well as I do," she began again, "that his aunt and uncle glory in the arrangement. I cannot believe they'd object to us taking him home and Arthur and I have long-since agreed to override their parental decisions in regard to Harry anyway."

"You are quite right, Molly, but this is my decision, and it is final, I'm afraid."

Molly shot to her feet, and there was a fierce look on her face that gave him a taste of how the champions must have felt attempting to take an egg from their dragon in the first task.

"Arthur went to collect Harry from their house before the World Cup. Do you know there are no pictures of him anywhere in that house? His uncle nearly smashed him over the head with a plate! Every year he comes back from them practically skin and bone, and I've heard the way they speak to him. They want nothing to do with him, and for the life of me I can't imagine why you insist on sending him back there. Why is it your decision at all, Albus?"

These accusations, hurled at him with all her might, finally seemed to crack that calm demeanor. A savage sense of triumph mixed with mortified shame filled Molly, but she ignored both. This was not about the two of them. This was about a child, a fourteen-year-old boy who was now too quiet and too pale and whom she was already afraid they might lose before their eyes.

"It is my decision, Molly, because like it or not, Harry is very important to the wizarding world differently and more primarily than he is very important to you. It is my decision because, forgive me, I know much more about the situation than you or Cornelius Fudge or even Harry himself. And finally" – he raised his voice slightly as she gave every sign of interrupting – "It is my decision because Lily and James Potter made me executer of their will, which includes the care-taking of their son until he is seventeen."

"They don't take care of him, Albus!" she burst out furiously. "They cannot possibly understand what he'd gone through, and they won't try to!"

"I have plans to write a letter to Petunia Dursley explaining the situation," Dumbledore offered as if it rectified the matter.

Molly sputtered, unable to vocalize her indignation at this statement. At last, she threw herself back into the chair and fixed Dumbledore with a stony expression. "I am not leaving this office until you explain to me why sending Harry back to people who _neglect _and _starve _him is in his best interest."

The headmaster sighed and rubbed his eyes beneath his half-moon glasses, the first signs of the exhausting past thirty-six hours. "Very well, Molly. But I must first impress upon you the importance of this matter's discretion. Harry does not even understand the entire thing himself, and I would like to keep it that way, at least for the time being."

He waited for her to nod accent before continuing.

"On Halloween, 1981, Lily Potter gave her life for her son. To the best of my knowledge, although I was not there and cannot say for certain, Lord Voldemort offered her the chance to live and she refused to stop shielding her child. The magic enacted by that kind of sacrifice is ancient, mysterious, and exceptionally powerful. That kind of love leaves an inerasable mark, one that flows in Harry's very blood. That is what stopped Voldemort from killing Harry as a child, and that part of Lily Potter lives on in her son and in her sister, you see? As long as Harry calls his aunt's house home, when he is there, he cannot be touched. That barrier cannot be jumped by anything Voldemort or his followers may attempt.

"Harry is in exceptional danger right now. Please, Molly. I am only too aware of the situation on Privet Drive, and I regret its necessity as much as you do. It's difficult to swallow, but I would rather he be hungry, lonely and alive than risk his safety and that of whoever harbors him, and I am sure he would prefer that, too."

Molly had dropped her gaze to her knees. Her vision had gone blurry as she saw Lily Potter begging for her son's life. Eventually she cleared her throat and stood up.

"We may have to send him back," she said, smoothing her robes, "but that does not give Vernon and Petunia Dursley license to treat him as they have." She turned and walked to the door with measured steps. As she turned the handle, she looked back at the headmaster with that same no-arguments look she'd come in with. "He'll come to us at the very earliest possible, then. I can't imagine Lily Potter gave her life for her son to live like that."

And then she left the room.

**A/N: Hey, I'm back! I wanted to update on Halloween as tribute, you know, but I was kind of busy. Fall break is over and done with and the reason I didn't update this at all (heh, sorry!) is because I was working on the next chapter of Letters. Yes, it's coming, I swear! Now I meant to start NaNo with my free afternoon, but this was stuck in my head, so I had to write it out. I remembered Ron mentioning that his mother had spoken to Dumbledore about this and suddenly had to know how exactly that interaction went down. **

**For the anonymous reviewer who agreed with me about Year of Darkness, your email didn't show up! If you still want to read my critique of that story, you could try again of periods. Otherwise, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who feels that way, too!**

**Anyway, thank you all for sticking with me! I know I'm terribly slow! Review anyway? Please?**


	143. June 27

_Abstergent__: cleansing. _

**June 27, 1995**

It was late, past three in the morning. Even with the horror of the third task hanging like an iron veil above their heads, the common room had finally emptied. All except for one person.

Neville Longbottom knelt before the dying fire, the rusty orange glow washing over him and throwing his face into flickering shadow. Slowly, he turned the pages of the heavy book in his lap, examining the beautifully illustrated pictures, the carefully written text that had become a refuge for him this year.

He reached the middle of the book and let the covers drop limply, staring at the pale weeds curling and drifting in the sketched current of the Mediterranean. _Gillyweed_, the page opposite read. _If ingested will cause gills to sprout from the neck and enable breathing underwater temporarily. A truly magnificent property discovered in…_

But Neville closed the book. He knew what came next, must have read it a dozen times before February the twenty-fourth had rolled around. He loved that particular chapter. He had been afraid of drowning ever since Great Uncle Algea had pushed him off the end of Black Pool Peer and for a few horrible seconds he'd known what it was like for dark icy water to close over his head and steel his breath. The knowledge that there were plants out there that could stop that from ever happening, that he wouldn't have to worry about not being able to work a spell properly….

This book had been a trove of wonderful discoveries, a companion and reminder that there was something he was really good at.

Without a flicker of expression, Neville lifted the book, his fingers curling around the smooth, heavily-handled leather cover, and dropped it into the hearth. The embers sparked, bright flames began to lick its edges, quickly charring the crisp parchment. And Neville watched with sorrow and the feeling of a friend's betrayal, but without regret.

Those bright pictures had been colored with poison and the information loaded and deadly. It had been nothing more than a weapon aimed at his friend, and but for a streak of pride, a few words unspoken, Neville would have been the one pulling the trigger.

So he sat alone in the dark common room and watched the book burn.

**A/N: Heh, hi. So I'm back…. Okay, so I'm hopelessly behind, and this was a random day to get back into it, but I had inspiration, so I went with it. Actually, I meant this to be the first part of a whole other one-shot. You might have read about my plans for it on my profile? It was meant to be called small gestures and compiling about twelve (since it IS Harry Potter) little moments with people doing little, unnoticed things for one another, just to restore my faith in humanity, but I looked at my list of other ideas and decided they could all fit in to this story somehow and I need to focus on this story. **

**So, if you're all still with me, I don't know how updates will look for a while, but hopefully I'll at least be writing. Oh, yes, and about this chapter, I imagine all Neville knows at this point is that Moody was being impersonated by a Death Eater with the ultimate goal of killing Harry and he's figured out that he was supposed to be part of the plan. When he learns what specific Death Eater it was, I'm sure he'll be more than happy he burned his book. **

**Thank you for being so patient! You all are extraordinary! :) **


	144. June 29

_Agemate__: a person of about the same age as another. _

**June 29, 1980**

"I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest."

Lily Potter rolled her eyes as she carefully lowered herself into the folding chair beside a pretty blond woman with an amused smirk and a belly as bulbous as her own.

"For heaven's sake, Alice. Has Sirius gotten to you already? I barely stumbled."

"I heard you fell down a flight of stairs."

"Sirius Black is a notorious liar." Lily said primly, clasping her hands over her bulging stomach.

Alice Longbottom laughed, tossing her head back merrily. "You sound just like you did back in forth year, do you remember? I was Head Girl and how many times did I have to mediate for you and Sirius or James?"

"Too many," Lily said, grinning ruefully.

"At least you only had to deal with them for one year," a new voice chipped in.

"Remus!" Lily cried happily, struggling up to enfold her friend in a hug made difficult by her large belly. "You don't call, you don't write…."

"It's only been a week," Remus reminded her amusedly. "And anyway, I should be the one worrying about you. What's this I hear about you falling off a bridge and Sirius having to rescue you on his motorbike?"

Remus burst out laughing at the completely exasperated expression on Lily's face.

"It was _two steps_, and I didn't even hit the ground, thank you."

"Thank Sirius by the sound of it," Remus snickered and Lily smacked his arm.

"Never mess with a woman who's eight months pregnant," Alice advised too late, watching Remus rub his shoulder reproachfully.

"Eight months already?" he asked, eyes widening.

"Seven and a half," Lily corrected. "And what do you mean by 'already'? It's been the longest, hottest, most _nauseating _seven and a half months of my life."

Alice patted Lily's shoulder in a comradely fashion. "Just a few more weeks. Then we'll let the guys take over and go hit a few pubs. Merlin, I can't wait to taste butterbeer again…."

"Leave James in charge of a newborn?" Remus snorted. "I don't suppose you remember all the detentions you handed out that one year you were Head Girl."

"As a matter of fact, I do," Alice said, giving Remus a sly look. "And I seem to remember having to write 'Remus Lupin' on a lot of those slips, too."

Remus shrugged, grinning. "So, speaking of detentions and Headships and dealing with Potters for seven years, which one of your little miracles there do you suppose will be docking points from the other one in fifteen years?"

"Are you kidding? If James has anything to do with it, ours will be driving the prefects up the wall the moment he boards the train," Lily sighed, although she couldn't keep the fondness out of her voice as she rubbed the side of her belly. "Al over there's the lucky one. She has a responsible husband. There's'll probably be a Head Boy or Girl just like them."

"I don't know," Alice said thoughtfully. "You two both got the headship, too. It might be an interesting competition."

"You reckon they'll be in the same house?" Remus wondered, looking from one round stomach to the other.

"I hope so," said Lily. "It would have been nice to already have a best friend in my dormitory when I started school. Of course, if this one decides to be late like his father, he might be a year behind Frank and Alice's son."

"And you think they'll be best friends?" Remus asked.

Both women looked at him as if he'd doubted the existence of unicorns.

"Of course they will be," Alice said confidently.

"Practically family," Lily added earnestly. "This fighting will all be over soon, and we'll all be celebrating our happily-ever-afters together for years to come. You'll see. And the kids'll get bored with us dull old folks and our reminiscing and they'll go off and stir up all kinds of trouble together like you lot used to. Our son'll corrupt Frank and Alice's little one in no time, just like James corrupted you."

"Is that so?" Remus asked, and he forced a smile just like he always did when he thought about the uncertain future waiting for them. He would like to believe it was the one Lily was describing.

"It is so," Lily told him. "It'll be a whole different world for our children. A whole other generation. And these two will be the start of it."

She looked so utterly certain that Remus didn't have to force his next smile.

"Well I pity the teachers that will have to deal with the pair of them then."

**A/N: Hey! Two whole updates on the same day! And it's not even a dent. Ah well. Hope you liked it anyway. Let me know, will you? :)**


	145. June 30

_Pilikia__: trouble. _

**June 30, 1994**

The clouds of smoke from Hogsmeade station billowed up above the distant tree line, silver-gray in the streaming sunshine that had persisted for weeks. A faint breeze rippled the emerald lawns, but outside of that, the grounds finally lay still and quiet. Peaceful, some might call it, but Albus Dumbledore surveyed the landscape with his ancient gaze and rather thought it looked lonely without hordes of laughing students filling it up.

"They'll be back before we know it, Albus."

Dumbledore did not so much as flinch at the voice coming out of the Entrance Hall behind him.

"Life goes by quickly," he agreed sagely. "I'd thought you went home with the rest, Minerva. What keeps you here?"

"Sirius Black escaped, Remus Lupin resigned, and Hagrid's condemned hippogriff vanished. Am I right in assuming none of those things are coincidences?" McGonagall asked, coming to stand beside the Headmaster on the broad stone front steps.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore responded infuriatingly vaguely.

"Potter seemed rather morose considering his Quidditch victory, decent marks, and Gryffindor's winning the House Cup. Is there a reason for that?" she persisted.

"There no doubt is," Dumbledore nodded.

McGonagall repressed an irritated sigh before giving it one last shot. "And the papers on my desk this morning. Do you really plan to reinstate _that _tournament?"

"I do indeed," said Dumbledore gravely.

"Dumbledore, for heaven's sake!" McGonagall exclaimed. "Don't you think our students get into enough trouble on their own without us organizing it for them?"

"I think," Dumbledore said slowly, "that Mr. Potter will find trouble no matter what we do. And I would rather know what it is he's getting into. And I believe that now more than ever is the time to reach out to our foreign allies. One can never have too many friends."

The pair of them stood in silence for a moment, staring out across the smooth surface of the lake at the clouds rolling across the mountains in the distance.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what's coming?" McGonagall asked resignedly.

"Go home, Minerva," Dumbledore told her. "Enjoy the fine weather while it lasts, and we will deal with next year when it comes."

And with that, he turned and swept into the comparatively gloomy Entrance Hall, leaving his deputy Headmistress with more of a pit in her stomach than before as she pondered what sort of trouble was gathering on their horizons.

**A/N: So I hate adding chapters in the middle of the story because now all my chapter numbers are off for reviews. I did add June 10, btw, but you might not be able to review it if you already reviewed the original chapter 116. You could review 118 instead, I think. I'd appreciate it if you did :) Slowly filling in the gaps here! I think I'll just add new chapters to the end and put them in proper order when I update the newest chapter so you all don't have to remember which dates you've read and which are new. **

**Thank you for your encouragement and love you all! :)**


	146. July 9

_Scherzando__: playful; sportive._

**July 9, 2018**

"Come _on_, Al! You throw like a bloody girl!" James yelled, chucking the Quaffle (the one Ginny had gotten signed by the 2015 English team at the world cup, actually, but as their mother had a fair collection of these signed trophies, they thought a few of them ought to be played with) as hard as he could across their makeshift Quidditch field at his brother.

Albus caught the ball in his gut with a winded grunt and scowled at his brother. "I'm a _Seeker _James, not a Chaser," he complained, tossing the Quaffle lightly to Lily swooping below him.

"You won't be anything if you can't handle passing a Quaffle for tryouts," James told him, shooting an apple in place of a bludger at the back of his brother's head. It hit its mark, too, and Albus yelped and swiveled around angrily.

James dodged the retaliatory kick Albus aimed his way with a derisive laugh. "Pathetic," he muttered, steeling the Quaffle from Lily, who'd been floating in midair, watching her brothers fight with a frown.

"Is it just me, or is he being more of a git today than usual?" Lily muttered to Al, shooting up to hover alongside him.

Albus ducked quickly to avoid another apple to the head and ground his teeth. "Definitely more of a git," he grumbled.

The game only got worse from there on out. Ten minutes later, after James had called Al a girl in several creative ways, almost knocked him off his broom _twice_, and 'accidentally' elbowed Lily in the chin, his siblings had had quite enough of him.

"Fine!" James shouted as together the two of them landed, climbed off their brooms, and started for the shed. "I can practice better without you klutzes messing me up anyway!"

"I'll show you who the klutz is!" Lily yelled shrilly, turning around, but Albus grabbed her shoulder and dragged her out of the grove of towering trees that hid their field.

"Why is he being such a… argh! Such a _James_?" Lily fumed as the two of them heaved open the heavy shed doors.

Albus shrugged, scowling. "Mum says it's 'cause he's a teenager now," he explained, rolling his eyes. "I heard Hermione telling her the other day that if James got any more than just Dad's looks, she might want to start using Mufliato, whatever that's supposed to mean."

They squeezed their way into the dusty gloom of the cluttered shed. Lily scampered nimbly over the heap of spare motorbike parts their father insisted he would get around to using on Sirius's old bike, which accounted for most of the clutter, and stretched on tiptoe to hang her broom on the back wall. Albus made to follow her, eyes watering from the dust, but halfway up the mound of rusted rims and handlebars he sneezed and slid to the ground in an avalanche of scrap metal and yet more dust.

"You alright, Al?" Lily asked, peeping over the junk pile and trying to muffle her snickers.

"Yeah… great," Albus groaned, sounding as if he had a bad head cold. He sneezed again, rolled over, and was about to try for a second round with the spare bike parts when a piece of paper, crumpled and tossed into the corner of the shed, inches from his face, caught his eye. There might be a lot of useless nuts and bolts lying around in here, but everything else was pretty organized. He reached for it on an inbred impulse of curiosity.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Lily asked, this time more sincerely as her brother still hadn't gotten up from the floor.

Albus sat up and that was when she noticed the piece of parchment he was reading. He held it out to her. "I think I know why James is in such a foul temper."

It was a letter. From a girl.

"What's 'uncouth' mean?" Lily asked, furrowing her brows.

"It means James isn't getting his date," Albus told her, taking the letter back and tearing it up.

XxX

It was raining by the time James stormed into the kitchen, muddy and dripping. Lily eyed him from behind her mug of hot chocolate at the kitchen table. Albus looked around from the stove where he was minding the kettle.

"What d'you want?" he growled, casting them each a surly look.

"Think fast," Albus said suddenly, whipping an apple from the fruit bowl across the kitchen at his brother.

It bounced off James's shoulder and he dropped his broom as he fumbled for it.

"You catch like a girl," Albus informed him, leaning casually against the counter. James opened his mouth furiously, drawing back his arm to chuck the apple back as hard as he possibly could. But then he caught the smirk playing around his brother's mouth. He still chucked the apple as hard as he possibly could, but it hit Al in the chest rather than the face.

"Prat," James muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips, too.

He turned to Lily and shook like a dog, splattering her with flecks of muddy water. She shrieked obligingly and leapt off her chair onto his back. James tried to shake her off, but she had a stranglehold around his neck.

"Oh no, I'm losing control! Can't stop!" James cried, spinning around like a top and purposefully staggering into Albus.

It didn't take long for the three of them to end up in a heap on the kitchen floor surrounded by a puddle of icy water from James's soaked clothes.

"You choke like a girl," James gasped.

"That's because I am one, dillop," Lily said sweetly, tightening her hold.

"Can we please get off my esophagus," Albus wheezed, shoving at James's elbow.

"Pathetic," James muttered, but his tone had completely changed from that morning.

"You're the pathetic one."

"At least I don't throw like a girl."

"I'm a _Seeker, _James! A Seeker!"

"Excuses, excuses," James grinned, grabbing his brother in a headlock as Lily leapt on both of them.

"You two fight like _boys_!"

"Ow, Lily! Not the hair!"

"Say it!"

"Never!"

"Say it!"

"Alright – fine –"

"You win!"

"Girls rule!"

**A/N: Ahaha, they always do ;) My brother never thought of that move. Not that we fought very much…. Anyway, this is a long over-due birthday gift for Katrina Roxanne! Hope you like it! Thank you all a million and a half for the awesome reviews! Keep 'em comin'! Please? :)**


	147. July 10

_Ectopic__: Occurring in an abnormal position or place._

**July 10, 2005**

James let out a mad yowl, beating the air with tiny, clenched fists.

"Oh, hush now," Ginny hissed to him, repositioning him in her lap as he wriggled. "Can't you go five minutes without making a fuss?"

"You'd better take him out," Harry muttered as people started turning their way, a few already giving them judgmental frowns.

She gave him a sideways look, wincing as one of James's flailing feet connected with her abdomen. "Alright, alright," she shushed to the baby. "We won't be five minutes," she added apologetically to Harry, leaning over to kiss him as she stood with their positively screeching son. "Really."

Harry nodded. "Don't worry about it." But the moment they were gone, he felt the atmosphere closing in around him, the suits, the gleaming dance floor, the obscenely expensive vases of flowers, the passive-aggressive chitchat rising up like suffocating vapor to the arched ceiling of the church. He was as out of place here as he had always been. He took another sip of champagne, tapping the seconds on his thy as he waited for Ginny to return.

Dudley and his new bride had taken the dance floor to some Beatles' song Harry half-remembered from long ago. He watched with a feeling of fondness that was still new and strange to him as Dudley clumsily shuffled his girth around, trying not to bowl his wife over in the process. She was almost as tall as him, but willow-thin and delicate, almost made of wisps. But she had a warm laugh and a gentle way of keeping Dudley from making too much of an idiot of himself. From what he'd seen of her when they'd met last summer, Harry liked her well enough. Dudley had seemed oddly keen for his opinion. That evening still baffled him.

"Oh, terribly sorry."

Harry was jerked out of his musings as a woman stumbled over the baby carrier Ginny had stuffed awkwardly under her chair. He automatically reached out to steady her, mumbling a quick apology of his own. Their eyes met, and they both froze at the same time.

Aunt Petunia jerked back an automatic step and Harry drew his hands back as if he'd been shocked. Her pale eyes stared back at him, wide as galleons, and he thought perhaps he should say something, some of the things he had imagined telling her, asking her ever since diving into the pensive filled with Snape's memories, but his breath was caught in his throat and he felt suddenly eight years old again and caught where he shouldn't be. The funny thing was, she looked equally as caught.

She was the first to recover. "What are _you _doing here?" she demanded, defensively snappish.

Harry, some of his adulthood coming back to him, raised his eyebrows. "Dudley invited us. We're friendly."

Her mouth dropped open just a little before she regained some of her composure. The silence that had fallen between them all those years ago before they'd left Privet Drive swelled up suddenly, horribly sticky and dense with decades of things unsaid.

"Hello." As a life-preserver flung to a drowning man, Ginny dropped in beside Harry, James contentedly sucking on a pacifier in the crook of her arm. "I don't suppose you remember me; we met once a few years ago. I'm Ginny Potter, Harry's wife." She extended the hand not currently tapping soothingly against James's hip to keep him calm.

"I need to serve the drinks," Aunt Petunia said abruptly and turned on a heal and bustled away.

"I'm so sorry," Ginny rushed the moment she was gone, slumping against Harry's arm. "He wouldn't take the bottle, and then he was sick all over me, and –"

"It's fine," Harry cut her off, still staring at the place his aunt had vanished in the crowd. "We saw Dudley and Allison, we should head out. We don't exactly belong in this crowd anyway. No wonder Jamie was sick. The fumes of expensive cologne in this room are making _my _stomach turn."

He stood up suddenly and reached for James's bag.

"Harry…."

"Leave it."

"But isn't there _something _you want to say to her? After everything?"

"She doesn't want to hear it."

"Who the bloody fuck cares what she wants?"

"Ginny –"

"Oh, he can't understand a word I say."

"Let's just go. Please? We only came for Dudley and he won't miss us." He had already swung the diaper bag over his shoulder and hoisted the baby carrier over an arm and was looking imploringly at her. "This isn't the time nor the place."

Ginny sighed and stood up. "But if you don't say anything to her soon, you can bet I will."

**A/N: A bit strange to leap back to July for Christmas, I know, but I'll have a Christmas special for you later. This is for Zoulou. I've got some better Petunia stuff coming in a bit. Inspiration struck after I had most of this written. Anyway, Merry Christmas to you all! (And if there's anything you'd like as a stocking-stuffer, let me know in a review and I'll see if I can work something up!)**


	148. July 12

_Paronymous__: containing the same root or stem, as the words wise and wisdom. _

**July 12, 1995**

Parvati Patil liked to think she was a friendly, amiable sort of person. She liked to think that she could handle herself in any social setting with dignity and poise. And liking to think these things about herself was about the only thing stopping her from pulling out her wand and jinxing Sue Li's pretty little lips to three times their normal size. That, and of course a desire to avoid expulsion.

Parvati focused on the nail brush she was carefully daubing on her long red nails and tried not to listen to the other girls' chatter. She liked her sister's friends. Honestly she did. She and Lavender spent half their time by the lake with Padma and the other Ravenclaw girls. Being social butterflies as they were and with Hermione Granger the only other girl in their dorm, they were practically forced to befriend the Ravenclaws. But there were times when the house differences were very obvious, and it was all Parvati could do to keep a hold on her rather bold temper.

"Look at the evidence," Sue was saying, pulling her sleek black hair back into a tight bun. She pushed her rhinestone-studded glasses up her nose with her index finger and went on in a voice reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. "There's no doubt he's had a traumatic life. Witnessing your parents' murders? Even as an infant that could screw a person up. Just _knowing _that you were there, that you survived for God knows _what _reason. And then they say he was neglected as a child –"

"Who says that?" Lisa Turpin interrupted skeptically.

The girls sat about on the Patils' back steps, nail polish bottles and sparkly eye-shadows scattered among the text books and newspapers spread out between them all.

"Hannah Abbott hears it all from Longbottom," Sue said primly, blowing on her sparkly blue nails.

"Hannah isn't much of a gossip," Lisa pointed out, flipping idly through their new Charms book, which she'd brought to show off to the rest, the first to have purchased it as the book lists hadn't arrived yet.

"Not ordinarily, but it's easy to get things out of her if you get her riled up," Sue smirked.

"Half the time I think you belong in Slytherin," Mandy Brocklehurst teased, and Sue made a face at her.

"Anyway," she went on loudly. "He hates his relatives, that's no secret. So he comes here and all of a sudden he's famous. What kid wouldn't love that? Especially with his history?"

"He's famous because someone wants to kill him," Parvati burst out angrily before she could stop herself.

All four of the other girls turned on her.

"Someone _wanted _to kill him," Sue corrected. "And I expect that just added to the glamor."

Parvati ground her teeth as Sue went on.

"But of course that only lasts so long before it gets old. He had to go get involved in that whole stone business by the end of our first year. There's always something going on around him. And I don't care what they say about hoodwinking the goblet. That's an incredibly powerful magical object! It's much easier to fool an age line. Besides, you saw him – he was loving that tournament, showing off on his broom and saving that little Delecour girl and having Vati on his arm" – she gave Parvati a knowing look here – "and the ministry knew about him speaking Parsletongue and all sorts of other things. What purpose would it possibly serve them to start making things up now?"

"Alright, so if he's making things up, what happened in that maze?" Parvati burst out.

Sue gave her that look that the Ravenclaws sometimes gave her, like she was a slow, but amusing child. It drove her up the wall. "Well, you saw how badly Krum wanted to win, using Crucio. And Potter has five times the fame to keep going. I mean, I'm sure he didn't _mean _to, but still…."

She trailed off delicately. The others stared at her, wide-eyed. Lisa even put down her book.

"Sue," Mandy gasped. "You don't honestly think that he…."

Sue looked pale but determined. "Well, either Potter got a little carried away in the heat of the moment, or a man who's been dead thirteen years came back, did it for him, and then sent Potter on his way back to school."

Parvati stood up. She couldn't sit here one more second and listen to this. With a swish of her long dark hair, she turned and marched into the house, letting the door snap behind her to her sister's call of, "Vati!"

Fury was bubbling beneath her skin. How could Sue Li just sit there and spew out smug judgments like that as if she knew everything from a few articles in the paper? How could the rest _listen _to her? They'd been in school with Harry for four years, just like her. How could they even _think _about believing their classmate had killed a fellow student just because the ministry implied it?

Up in the room she shared with her sister, she threw herself onto her bed and rolled over to look out the window, down at the back steps where Sue was no doubt still holding court. That was the distinct difference between herself and the Ravenclaw girls. She got angry easily while they sat and pondered all the angles. She went with her gut and her heart and they followed their logic and their minds. Usually it didn't matter, but the other thing about Ravenclaws was that they sat around debating current events, so it was impossible to avoid scenes like this when it _did_ matter.

They were just so _blind_, Parvati thought angrily, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow. Of course the _prophet _made sense when your only source was _the prophet_! For being brainiacs, they weren't all that smart. With a sinking feeling, Parvati realized that, outside of the few people who actually knew Harry, most of the school would probably have come to the same conclusion as the brilliant Sue Li. And with an even further plunge of her stomach, she realized that her sister might just be one of them.

Padma was very like Parvati. Until they were eleven, Parvati had barely noticed the differences between her and her sister at all. They were pretty, smart, outgoing, vivacious girls, and until their first year of school, nearly inseparable. Perhaps Padma had always been a bit more studious and cautious, Parvati a bit more restless and reckless. But until they'd been put into different dormitories, different classes, different circles of friends, the similarities had always seemed to outweigh the differences.

Parvati sat up and looked over to her sister's side of the room. It was decked out in Ravenclaw blues and bronze, neat and tidy as always. There was a clear line down the middle where Parvati's clutter of clothes and jewelry began, where red and gold took over. And down in the back garden Padma was still listening to Sue Li denounce their own classmate. What would she be like back at school?

In the four years since Padma had been her one-and-only-very-best friend, suppose the line between messy and neat had widened into a much greater rift? Suppose they fell on opposite sides of this battle?

The room seemed suddenly far too small and hot. Parvatie leapt to her feet and bolted down the stairs. In the kitchen she filled a glass with ice-cold water and leaned against the counter, sipping it and trying to rid her stomach of the heavy wait that had settled there. The back door banged. Padma perched herself at the table and began to braid her hair into a long dark plait.

"Where are the rest?" Parvati asked cautiously, and perhaps a little coolly.

"Lisa and Mandy just remembered they had to be home and I didn't much fancy keeping Sue around if she's bent on talking like that, so I told her you hadn't been feeling well and she'd best go home, too."

"You don't agree with her, then?" Parvati asked, turning to put her glass in the sink.

Padma stopped mid-braid to give her sister an incredulous and offended look. "Of course I don't agree with her! She's being stubborn and stuck-up, and I went to the ball with Ron Weasley last year, and I might not have enjoyed it, but Potter didn't either. Any boy who stares at his feet for an entire dance can't possibly be capable of… well, _that_."

"Oh, Padma, I should know I can always count on you," Parvati beamed, flying across the kitchen to hug her sister.

Padma gave her a strange look, but Parvati didn't mind in the least. She should have known better than to doubt her sister. They might not be the perfect matching set they looked like on the outside, but down at the core, they were one in the same.

**A/N: Perhaps a bit of a stretch with this word, but I was inspired! This chapter is for draco'sfairmaiden who suggested some Patil twins, and as I haven't explored them much, I decided to give it a go! Thank you all so very much for your favorite characters and suggestions! I'll try to give you each what you like :) Keep reviewing! So close to 800! **


	149. July 20

_Qualia__: a quality, such as bitterness, regarded as an independent object._

**July 20, 2005**

The door began to swing shut almost the moment it opened.

"Wait a moment," Harry said, grabbing the edge to stop its slamming in his face. "I'd like to speak to you," he said calmly and his aunt's eyes widened.

"I haven't any time," she snapped, grabbing her purse from the side table. "I'm on my way out."

"It won't take long," Harry promised. "You won't need to say anything back, but you're going to listen to me because you owe me that much. You do."

He stared at her hard for a few seconds. She stared back, chewing her lip, not making any sign of acquiescence, but not resisting either. He looked down and took a breath, thinking of the things he'd scribbled down this morning.

"You treated me horribly for sixteen years, and there's no excuse for that. I always knew that, but I was too little to really understand it or to do anything about it or to even know that I could." His face was flaming and his palms were sweating and this was the worst situation he'd gotten himself into in a long time, but it was also the best. Every word was just as stilted and awkward as it had seemed when he'd written it down, but it was the distilled truth and giving it voice was making part of him soar even as his heart pounded madly. He took another breath.

"I didn't deserve to be locked in three-by-six cupboard. I didn't deserve to go days without real food." This was Hermione's idea, something she'd gotten out of one of her parents' psychology books, listing off all the wrongs. "I didn't deserve to be told that I was nothing, or worse than nothing every day of my life in the way you spoke to me and looked at me and brushed me aside." He was on a roll now. He couldn't have stopped the things pouring out of his mouth if he'd tried. "I didn't deserve to be humiliated by the clothes you put me in or the stories you told other people about me. I didn't deserve to have frying pans swung at my head, to be dragged around by the collar or the ear or the hair, to be beaten up by your son and his friends while _you _turned a blind eye.

"I didn't deserve to be a scapegoat for everything you didn't like about your life. I was a kid who'd done nothing wrong except have your sister as my mother, and _I didn't deserve your bitterness._"

He was breathing hard now, as if he'd run a long way, and only now did he look up at her. She hadn't moved, hadn't changed expressions, but she looked paler, maybe.

"I have a godson, you know." He didn't know why he was saying this. It hadn't been on the paper, but his voice was softer now and he couldn't grab the words and real them in, so they just kept coming. "He's not my kid. He's the son of someone I loved and was angry at, too. Someone I miss. Someone I never got to say a lot of things to. And when I look at my godson, I think of him and it hurts like hell. But my godson doesn't know any of that. My godson wasn't around when all of that was happening, and its not his fault that he brings all of that up just by existing. I love that kid.

"You know, I always knew the way I grew up was terrible, but that was the way it was so what was the point of dwelling on it, right? But now I've got my godson and a kid of my own and… if anybody _ever_ made them feel a fraction of what you made me feel when I was living in this house…." He shook his head, out of words. "I'm just finally understanding how messed up this whole thing was."

He took a final deep breath and looked his aunt square in the face. It was like she'd been petriified, the way she still frozen there, staring at him.

"I'm not looking for an apology or anything. But I need you to acknowledge everything that happened in this house and that it was messed up. I do deserve that much."

And he fell into silence, wondering if she would ever speak again. They stood there for a long time, his hands in his pockets, her mouth slightly open. He knew it wasn't coming. She was never going to admit that she'd been wrong; he doubted she _was _even sorry.

And then she moved, shifted on her heels, looked down at the hem of her dress. "You're right," she said. It was a hoarse whisper, but he heard it loud and clear. "You're right." And she closed the door.

**A/N: Ohmygosh, school, work, time, I'm sorry! But here you go! I know it's a lot of Harry just spewing out all his grievances, but the fact that he's old enough and brave enough to do it now I think is a big step for him. Let's face it, reading the books after taking an intro psych class reveals a lot of serious issues we never got to see Harry deal with. The Dursleys didn't physically abuse him in the way that a lot of overdramatic FF portrays, but they DID emotionally kick the shit out of him, the effects of which we can see pretty clearly once you look closely. And the thing about him being angry at Lupin? Yeah, I've touched on that in other chapters here, but I think that's another thing he had to deal with once he started recovering from the trauma of his adolescence, coming to terms with the ways Sirius and Lupin, as wonderful as they are, did in fact screw him over, too. I think getting angry at them (and at the Dursleys) was healthy for Harry and necessary for him to be able to forgive them (not the Dursleys, perhaps). **

**Okay, anyway, I have a lot of feelings about Harry's psychologic development.**

****Love you all! Take all the candy hearts you want! And do feel free to drop me a line via review or PM, anything you want to chat about :) ****


	150. July 26

_Precipitancy__: headlong or rash haste._

**July 26, 1994**

The sun baked down on them, a sweltering July heat. The sand burned their hands and feet as they scrambled along a long-forgotten path winding through the cliffs, sinking up to their wrists and ankles with each step. To their right glittered the sea, a deep, rolling sapphire blue. To their left a smooth rock face jutted upward into the clear, clear sky. Seagulls squawked and circled on the breeze above their heads, and below them waves crashed in foamy eruptions against the boulders.

"I _told _you we'd make it!" Justin Finch-Fletchly exclaimed triumphantly when at last he was kneeling on the small rocky lip that hung out above the ocean. From that point on it was a straight vertical climb to the cliff peaks where the water birds kept their nests. Justin turned, grinning, to the person behind him, who happened to be Susan Bones. "I _told _you a little hard work pays off, didn't I?" he said excitedly, taking her wrist and helping her up the last steep ledge.

Susan rolled her eyes, tossing her long red braid over her shoulder. "About a hundred _thousand _times over the last three years, yes," she agreed, laughing.

"Is he back to his motto already?" came Hannah's voice from below.

There was a grinding of rocks and a sharp squeal as her footing shifted.

"Alright, Hannah?" Susan called, peering anxiously back over the ledge to the path.

"I'm fine," Hannah squeaked. "What were you saying about us all making it?"

"Yeah, what was that about telling a bunch of _Hufflepuffs _what hard work will get them?" Ernie puffed, the last one to round the final bend.

The girls snickered as Justin scowled down at his best friend. "Can't you ever let me have a moment, Ern? I lead us to a victory, here."

"Go on, Sue, give him a moment to gloat to the rocks!" Ernie called, giving Hannah a leg-up.

It took a bit more hard work, but finally the four of them stood at the edge of the cliffs, looking out across the bay. Emerald green hills and yellow beaches peeked through the mist that hung across the water, and even Ernie had to admit it was a view worth half a day's climb through smoldering sand and sharp rocks and a blazing sunburn.

"It really is something, isn't it?" Justin said proudly, looking with satisfaction at his friends' slightly awed expressions.

"I can't believe I'm a step away from plummeting thirty feet into the ocean," said Hannah, eyeing the drop and tightening her white-knuckled grip on Susan's elbow.

"_I _can't believe your parents let you do this," Susan said, backing up a little to press herself against the firm wall of rock behind her.

"Who says they know?" Justin smirked, edging a little closer to the drop-off and chucking a stone out into the water.

"Careful Finch," Ernie warned, lying down on his stomach to peer out over the edge (being sure to lock his foot around Susan's ankle). "You'll be competing with the Gryffindors if you get any more daring."

"Gryffindors don't have a patent on daring," Justin said indignantly.

The others exchanged looks.

"Maybe not officially," Susan allowed. "But come on, Justin. How many loyal, dependable, _responsible _people would do something idiotic just for the rush?"

"So you think we're a bunch of pansies?" Justin demanded, his voice cracking with indignation now.

"Let's just say if you were the sort of person who'd leap off this cliff, Potter, Weasley, and Granger'd be with you instead of us," Ernie told him.

"Is that so?" Justin had stepped gingerly to the very edge of the ruck, barely an inch away from open air. They barely had time to realize what he was about to do before Justin had launched himself off the cliff.

The girls screamed. Ernie's vision flashed a sickening red as he watched Justin plummet into the sea below, landing with a great splash that was lost in the roar of the waves.

Justin uncurled his body in the white-out of bubbles, the shock of the freezing ocean seeping through him. _What the heck did I just do? _He kicked toward the surface, somewhat amazed that his limbs were all still in working order. When his face broke into the hot air and he'd shook the salty water and sodden bangs out of his eyes, gasped in a lungful of sweet air, he looked up. Three horrified faces gaped down at him from thirty feet above his head.

He tried to shout something up to them, but his voice was breathless and hoarse from the effort of keeping afloat in the rolling waves. It was, he realized, probably only thanks to ten summers of swimming off his father's boat in this bay that he wasn't drowning right now. He waved up at his friends instead, grinning.

"You are the biggest idiot I've ever met, Justin Finch-Fletchly!' Hannah screamed down to him.

"But at least we're not all pansies!" he shouted back.

**A/N: I'm so sorry this is late! Ah, I meant to post it yesterday, but things have been utterly crazy at my house. My grad party is on Sunday, so you know, family pouring in, scrubbing out house top to bottom, weeding and painting and otherwise scrambling to make our house look respectable…. **

**Anyway, this is a birthday gift from Snatching at Dreams to her friend, whose birthday was the 26th and who I hear is a fellow Hufflepuff! :) Happy birthday, and I hope it rocked and that you liked the story! **

**And thank you to everyone who has donated a little bit of their time to my review goal! You guys are amazing! **


	151. July 28

_Banausic__: serving utilitarian purposes only; mechanical, practical._

**July 28, 1996**

Very slowly, as if it were made of fractured glass, Arthur slid the screw into place. Holding the screwdriver in both hands, her turned it carefully round and round, watching as the metal bits shifted ever so slightly, wrong angles writing themselves, a loose mess coming into alignment. He let the small satisfaction of it suffuse his tight muscles as he straightened and laid aside his tools, admiring his handiwork.

"Nearly there," he told the half-assembled blender before him, and leaned over to examine a manual filled with spindly, mechanical diagrams. He glanced several times between the diagram and what was before him, frowning. "Hang on a tick, there's something missing. Ah –"

Arthur turned and began rummaging in the bins behind his worktable. They were a mess of bolts and wires and parts that had been borrowed from every type of household machine imaginable, all heaped together with no particular organization. But after some searching, Arthur came up triumphant, holding a small, scored disk.

"That ought to do the trick, old girl," he told the blender, turning back to the table.

A shuffling near the shed door, cracked open so that he would hear Molly calling him in, brought his head around. A shadow seeped over the threshold.

"Someone out there?" Arthur called, trying not to let his mouth go dry. The children had often come to investigate the shed, to kneel on the workbench and sift through the nuts and bolts as he worked, or to sneak sweets from the stash on the second shelf, looking at the muggle things with varying degrees of interest. But it had been a long time since the shed had drawn their intrigue. The shadow stirred, but there was no answer. Arthur drew his wand. "Who's there?" he demanded.

"It's just me, sorry." The door edged open a little more and a scrawny figure emerged from the darkness outside, drowning in an overlarge sweatshirt and jeans worn through at the knees.

Harry hovered near the door, looking around with cautious curiosity at the alarm clocks, remote control helicopters, and what looked like part of an old vacuum cleaner with wires sticking out of it shoved in the corner.

"No need to be sorry," Arthur said amiably, stowing his wand away. He flashing an encouraging smile to assure the boy he wasn't irritable and bent once more over his blender. "Come on in. Make yourself at home. So, Harry, what brings you out this late at night?"

He could hear Harry's quiet, shuffling gate working its way around the perimeter of the small shed, stopping here and there to examine something. He didn't have to look up to feel the shrug that came in response. By now he knew the habits of teenagers well enough. There had been times when getting more than three syllables out of Charlie in one day had been like pulling teeth.

Arthur made a small noise of victory as the disk shimmied into place. "What are they up to in the house?"

"Chess," Harry offered.

Arthur hid a knowing smile. He'd seen too many matches between Harry and Ron to be surprised that Harry had ducked out.

"How many imaginary laurels has Ron won now?" he asked.

Another silent shrug.

"I've no idea how he got to be so good at chess," Arthur said, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "The rest of us can barely remember how the pieces move. What keeps you humoring him with games?"

Harry didn't answer; his footsteps had stilled. Arthur glanced up to see what had caught his attention. He was peering at some of the photos tacked up all along the walls between tools and shelves stacked with plugs and batteries. They were all off-kilter snapshots that hadn't made it into Molly's scrapbooks, glares and tints and cut-off faces earning them secondary status. Harry had paused in front of one that had been taken when Ron was about six. Arthur had him in his lap, tickling him and making him writhe with laughter, firmly anchored by Arthur's other arm.

Harry looked away and Arthur quickly pretended he hadn't been watching.

"Want to help?" he offered instead, holding out a screwdriver.

"I'd probably wreck it," Harry muttered, shuffling his feet. "Never was very great with tools."

Arthur chuckled. "You know, the twins used to help me when they were little. You can't be much worse than them."

Harry cracked a smile that looked like it was a bit rusty. Arthur brandished a pliers at him, and Harry hesitated a second longer before reaching out a hand.

"Here, this bit's supposed to look like that," he explained, pointing to the manual. "I usually just keep fiddling until they match."

He watched surreptitiously as Harry, grinning, bent over to work on the wires. The weary look that had hung about him ever since he'd arrived shifted to one of careful concentration as he twisted and fiddled, glancing at the manual every few seconds. Arthur posed a few questions as they worked and Harry answered off-handedly, forgetting the teenage code of single-sentence responses.

"Aha," he said triumphantly, holding the small panel of connectors up for Arthur's approval, and light sparked in his green eyes.

Arthur felt that small satisfaction seeping through him as he laid heavy praise to Harry's technical skills, making the boy duck his head. He clapped him on the shoulder and didn't miss the way Harry's mouth quirked up. And Molly thought his muggle toolkits only fixed mechanical problems.

**A/N: Exams are done! Yay! And I mean to pour a bunch of these out, but then I got distracted by another story idea…. Anyway, hope you are all approaching jolly holidays! You know, we are officially in the season of giving, so if you wanted to donate the review drive, we've got thirteen days to break the four digits and then I swear I won't beg and plead anymore! Hope you liked this bit. I know I haven't been very diverse lately with characters, but I figure if I'm only updating once in a while, I can't swing as many random side-notes. It turned out subtler than I thought it would, this bit, but I think that's better. I figure there were moments like these that we just don't get to see. I mean, Harry lived with the Weasleys for months during the summers. Anyway, thank you all for your wonderful encouragement! Love you!**


	152. August 1

_Incondite__: ill-constructed; unpolished._

**August 1, 1997**

As Dawn's rosy fingers crept over the horizon and into the fields and farm houses of Devon, a frustrated growl escaped from the cellar of a crooked, red-roofed building on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. The flicker of an oil lamp came from beneath the door. At the bottom of the rickety wooden ladder that had seemed old even when the house was built sat Bill Weasley, groom-to-be in a few hours' time.

"This is bloody mental," he muttered to himself, crumbling up yet another piece of parchment and chucking it across the low, earthy room lined with his mother's preserves.

With perhaps a little more anger than it strictly deserved, Bill ripped off another piece of clean parchment, spread it on his knees, and started sketching out letters with agonizing slowness. After a few painful lines, he dropped the quill and reread his words.

"She's gonna hate me," he declared to the preserves, letting the parchment slip from his fingers and slumping back against the ladder with another frustrated exhalation.

The door opened and bright, early-morning light flooded into the small room, dazzling him.

"Bill?" his father's voice said groggily. "What're you doing down here?"

"Nothing," Bill told him quickly, gathering up his scrolls, ink pot, and quill. "Just, you know, couldn't sleep. No – don't bother coming down. I'll make you some coffee, shall I?"

But Arthur had already begun climbing, and in a minute he was sitting beside his eldest son on the rough planks of the cellar floor.

"I haven't been down here in ages," he mused, blinking interestedly at the jams and apple crates surrounding them. "Not since you took off for Egypt, at least. None of the rest fancied the cellar quite as much as you did."

"Well, yeah. That's because I told them all a giant, bloodsucking snake monster lived behind the shelves, dying to feast on little children," Bill explained, smirking a little.

"I would've thought that would draw them down here like flies to honey," Arthur chuckled.

"I might've borrowed one of your vacuum hoses and some of Mum's cherry jam, – er, among other things – to scare the twins away a few times," Bill confessed.

Arthur burst out laughing, which was exactly the opposite response this would have elicited ten years before. "Maybe they shouldn't be the only ones running a joke shop," he chortled.

Bill shrugged. "I had to get some peace _somewhere_ in this madhouse."

Arthur nodded understandingly. "Why do you suppose I built the tool shed?"

For a few minutes they sat in amiable silence, Arthur taking note of the many jars of his favorite marmalades that were hidden away down here, Bill doodling absently with his quill. But eventually Arthur decided it was time for the real subject to be broached.

"What brings a groom down here at five in the morning on his wedding day?" he inquired amiably.

Bill fidgeted, but kept his eyes on the quill he was turning over and over in his long fingers. A perfect image of his teenaged self whenever Arthur had caught him sulking in this very spot for some reason or another he never wanted to divulge.

"Wedding jitters?" Arthur pressed gently.

Bill looked surprised. "No! Of course not! I mean, we've been planning this for an entire bloody year. I can't wait to get it over with."

Arthur eyed the parchment and quill suspiciously. Then he stood up and crossed the room to scoop up a crumpled wad of discarded parchment. His eyebrows rose as he straightened it out, and he turned to his son.

"Don't tell me you're still writing your vows," he said incredulously, holding up the scribbled out lines. Bill's tortured expression was enough of an answer. "Bill, you're getting married in less than twelve hours!" Arthur exclaimed exasperatedly.

"I know!" Bill interrupted, flinging up his hands hopelessly. "But everything I write is so terrible even _I _would leave me at the alter for saying it out loud."

"It can't be that bad," Arthur tried to reassure him, rejoining his son at the base of the ladder. "All she wants is to hear why you're marrying her. It doesn't have to be an epic poem or anything. Just right down some nice things and tell her what kind of husband you plan on being, and it'll be fine."

Bill gave him a dubious look.

"Go on," Arthur prompted. "Let's hear what you're thinking."

"Alright," Bill cleared his throat. "Fleur, you're the most amazing –"

"Mm-mm," Arthur interrupted, holding up a hand and shaking his head. "Remember you've got a mother and a sister listening to this, and they're already finding it difficult to share the number-one-girl spot in your life."

"But she's my wife," Bill said exasperatedly.

"Trust me, son."

"Alright," Bill sighed. "Fleur, you're _one _of the most amazing people I've ever –"

"Oh, you can't say _that _to her in front of her entire family!" Arthur cut in incredulously. "She's your wife, not just anybody."

Bill gaped at his father, frustration strangling his words.

"Best to stay away from superlatives all together," Arthur advised, clapping him on the shoulder. "Go on, what else?"

"She, er – she's got the most lovely eyes?" Bill offered cautiously.

Arthur nodded. "Good for a first date, but you've got to be a bit fancier for a wedding."

"She's got a heart of gold" – Arthur smiled approvingly – "and skin like – like painted iron. She's so much tougher than she looks."

"Er, let's stick with the gold thing," Arthur suggested carefully. "What makes her golden to you?"

"She's… kind, and… sincere. And her hair might shine silver in the sun, but it's what's inside that counts. Girls like lines like that, don't they?"

Arthur tried not to wince. "You know what, Bill? The best kind of love is impossible to put into words. That's why they've already got the important promises covered in the standard vows."

"But Fleur already has hers written," Bill told him miserably. "She's had them done for ages! What'll she think if I can't even muster a few words about why I love her?"

Arthur smoothed out the tossed-away vow attempt he'd picked up. "I think if you show her this, she'll understand you want to use the standard vows _because _you love her."

Bill snatched the parchment away, blushing as his father snickered.

"I blame you, you know," he accused, tearing it into pieces. "You never taught me how to write a proper love note."

Arthur guffawed as he pulled himself to his feet. "Son, you're a talented boy, but I don't think any amount of tutoring could help you here."

"Aw, be quiet," Bill complained as his father mounted the ladder, still laughing. "You took the easy way out and eloped. You never had to deal with vows!"

"Maybe your brothers'll be wiser," Arthur called. "But since you weren't, you might as well bring up some peach jam while you're down there."

"No need to worry about this marriage not lasting," Bill muttered, crawling over to the peach jams stacked in the corner. "This is the last wedding I'm ever having."

**A/N: Oh, Bill. Well I hope you all enjoyed his struggle anyway :) What d'you know, I got another chapter up! :) I'm terrible lately, aren't I? Probably'll need another go-around to catch all the days I've missed. Oh well. It'll keep me busy next year, too :) **

**Thank you all for reviewing! You make my day! :) A little over 200 to go before August 20****th****! So I've decided to add a little incentive! If you review and tell me your favorite character, I'll try to write a story for them and dedicate it to you! So get typing! **


	153. August 2

_Cathect__: to invest emotion or feeling in an idea, object, or another person._

**August 2, 1997**

"One, Two, Three!"

Seven wands rose at the same time, and the crumpled heap of canvas rose like a cloud ten feet above their heads.

"To the North!"

It drifted sideways, rolling itself up into a neat bundle and came to settle on the grass to await a pickup that may never come. Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Fred, George, and Molly all looked somberly at the ruin underneath. Chairs and tables had been reduced to splinters, goblets and plates smashed to powder. A few discarded shoes and scarves and hats lay forlornly where they'd been dropped.

"C'est de Maman," Fleur murmured, tugging at a half-burned shawl.

"We'll send it to her," Bill promised, putting his arms around her. "I'm glad they got out before… wouldn't have wanted Gabrielle around for that."

Fleur shuddered and buried her face in his chest.

"And you're quite sure Ron and the others aren't –" Charlie began, looking at the rubble as if he might be sick.

"They're fine," Arthur said quietly and there was finality in his voice.

There was a heavy silence. Then Fred said, "I suppose we'd better get rid of this junk, then."

They'd lifted their wands again and were about to vanish the rubble when Mrs. Weasley cried, "Wait!"

"What is it?" Arthur asked, panicked.

Molly had dived forward, picking her way through the rubble and tripping onto all fours several times. Her husband, sons, and daughter-in-law watched her with confusion and concern until she reached the remains of an overturned table and shoved it aside. Underneath it was a small carnation that had once been a centerpiece. It lay bedraggled in a small mound of dirt that had spilled from its shattered pot, but it still had blooms and leaves clinging to it.

Tenderly, Molly lifted the plant from the debris and cradled it in her arms. Charlie waded out to help her out of the rubble.

"The thing's barely alive, Mum," he said, peering at the plant.

"Hush," Molly told him, gently fingering a bloom. "It's still got some hope."

Back at the house, Molly set to work repotting the carnation, binding it's bent stalk and drooping flowers. Behind her, Bill and Charlie were arguing.

"We haven't heard back from them at all," Charlie said in a low voice. "How do we even know they're still –"

"I saw them leave," Ginny piped up from the table where she was nursing a mug of tea.

The boys looked cautiously at her, obviously having forgotten she was there. They lowered their voices.

"Dad told them not to contact us because we're being watched," Bill said quietly.

"I still think someone ought to at least go looking."

"Where? Where would you look Charlie? You don't understand – they've been planning to leave for weeks. That's how it works around here – the three of them slip off. They take care of themselves."

Charlie looked up angrily from the suitcase he was folding his dressrobes into. "Are you saying something, Bill? Like I don't understand how my own family works anymore?"

Bill stared pointedly at the suitcase he was packing. "Better hurry, or you'll miss your portkey."

Molly heard him leave the kitchen. She carefully tipped the basin she'd been mixing potions in and poured three drops into the plant's soil.

Charlie didn't leave that evening. He'd meant to, but something held him back. Whether it was Bill's words or the hooded figures still watching from across the lane, he wouldn't say, but he was still sitting at the kitchen table at nine o'clock that night when Molly came in to check on her carnation.

He didn't look up at her footsteps, but when she gave a cry and dashed across the room as if something were on fire, he leapt from his chair.

"What is it? Mum, are you alright?"

"No, no, no, it was supposed to make it better!" she said in panic.

Coming closer, Charlie saw that the plant had gone from wilting to crumbling. The stem was nearly broke in half, and when his mother touched a gentle finger to its bloom, petals spilled off like a spatter of blood.

"That's too bad," Charlie said, always one to feel the loss of a living thing, no matter how small. "But it didn't have high chances from the off."

Molly didn't seem to hear. She was muttering to herself, grabbing potions and bags of ingredients and sprinkling them into the soil.

"No, you're supposed to come back," she ordered the plant, but even as she worked, the bloom dropped off completely. The leaves fell. The stalk crumbled.

"NO!" she screamed, and tears began to flood down her face.

"Mum!" Charlie exclaimed, taking her in his arms and rocking her gently as she sobbed into his shirt. "It's just a plant," he tried to rationalize. "I'll get you a new one, alright?"

"But – b-but I d-d-didn't even get t-to say g-g-goodbye," she wailed, shuddering with tears.

"It's just a _plant_," Charlie repeated, trying to make her understand this simple fact. "I mean, I'm sure it knows you tried your best, but –"

"But he's my baby," she was sobbing, whispering between ragged breaths. "He's my baby boy and I – I didn't get to – say good-b-bye."

Charlie had never seen his mother cry this hard before. He had been at his uncles' funeral, sat beside her when Bill had left for school, listened to her through the fire when she'd told him about his father being attacked and in St. Mungo's. But he had never seen her cry like this.

Maybe Bill was right, just a little bit. There were things about his family he didn't understand as quickly as he used to be able to. His youngest brother had vanished during an attack and no one was bothering to find him because there was no point. If it would make a difference, his mother would not be sobbing in his arms right now. She would be looking for Ron and bringing him home.

They did not know if he was okay, where he was or when he'd be back, and they all understood what Charlie did not: it was always going to be like this, and all they could do was wait.

**A/N: Two chapters for you, an extra-long one to make of for the last two short ones. There's been a lot of '97 around early August, hasn't there? The year and the one after it just draw me. The dynamics of this particular chapter intrigue me and it's hard to find stories about them, so… I gave it a shot. Hope you liked it. **


	154. August 3

_Foible__: a minor weakness or failing of character; slight flaw or defect._

**August 3, 2017**

The silvery material flowed smoothly through Harry's fingers, just as soft and soothing a feeling as it had been twenty-six years ago when he'd unwrapped it on Christmas morning. He could perform a disillusionment charm as well as Dumbledore now, but he still pulled the cloak out now and again and swung it over his shoulders. It had belonged to his father and wearing it almost felt like his father had found a way to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. Even now that he was grown, that was still a comfort.

But today would be the last day he would own it. Ever since the reality of being a father had set in on him, Harry had thought long and hard about how he would go about passing the cloak on. He couldn't slice it up and offer a third to each of his children/ But after eleven years of counting out exactly the same amount of Beartie Bott's Every Flavor Beans to put in each Easter basket, making sure there was always the same number of big, medium, and small gifts under the tree, that each ice cream cone was the same height, each bedtime story equally long, and each hug just as tight, it seemed woefully unfair to give just one of them something as incredible as a deathly hallow.

He had thought of waiting until they were all older and could understand, or maybe just let them fight for it after he'd died, but by then what use would it be to them? Why would they need to sneak around unseen, even if they couldn't hide themselves well enough with a charm? He and his father had both had it in school. It would have to go to them when they were at Hogwarts. But who and when and how should he pick? He'd entertained the idea of making them share it, but after diffusing a shouting match over who got the bathroom first in the morning for the hundredth time, this hope evaporated.

So Harry simply set about watching his children closely, of trying to understand how they each operated and hoping an answer would present itself in time for his decision. Luckily for him, it did.

They had always known that James was like a firework. He was loud and bright and explosive and entirely impossible to contain. When he was upset, he shouted and flailed and stirred up an unholy clamor. When he was happy, he bounced off the walls. No matter what was going through his head, James made himself noticed. He didn't know how to be invisible, unreactive, and fading into the background was something he hated more than just about anything. And Harry knew that no matter what they told him, James would do what he pleased in the end. He was stubborn and uncontrollable, even for himself sometimes.

James would get into enough trouble without the added advantage of invisibility. The best thing they could do was offer up the map and hope it gave him enough warning of approaching danger to avoid detention. Besides, even if Teddy didn't pass it down to him, James would find a way to nick it. It was practically his birthright.

Lily was something else. She wasn't as wild as James, but she was just as powerful a presence. Even when she was too small to talk, she had given them a look that said exactly what she thought. She could scream like all hell had broken loose, but she could also say everything with just her eyes. She was just as expressive as James and almost as dramatic, but in one way, she was his polar opposite: she observed everything around her. Lily was sharp and fearless. She watched everybody and learned from them and as a result, knew how to get what she wanted. But along with this talent came a kind of smugness that Harry watched carefully.

She saw James's arrogance showing at times and was learning to check it in herself, but when things come easily, it's hard not to get a bit cocky. Harry wasn't afraid his daughter wouldn't be responsible, but he also didn't think it would hurt her to not have that extra advantage. Lily could use a few situations she couldn't simply dance her way out of, a few challenges she would have to face head-on. And besides, Lily already knew how to blend in when she wanted to. And didn't often want to.

Albus, however, was a different bread altogether. He was quiet where the others were loud, cautious where they were fearless, pensive where they were active, and calm where they erupted. Albus watched like Lily did, felt like James did, and hugged the walls like neither. He thought things through, often several times, but when there wasn't time for that, he froze. Albus didn't fight or flee, he usually froze. James was the only exception to the pattern, and Harry had begun to wonder if James didn't pick fights with his brother just to try to combat Al's freeze reflex.

This freeze reflex wasn't always a bad thing. It stopped Albus from getting into half as many fights as James and even Lily, and Harry would have considered it an asset if it weren't for the fact that Albus also happened to be rather more sensitive than his brother and sister. His natural penchant for pulling on camouflage had gotten Harry thinking about giving Albus the cloak for a while. But it was today, when his ten-year-old son had come home tearstained and muddy, and his brother had had to explain sheepishly about the boys in the park who'd started picking on him, that Harry cemented his decision.

When you couldn't run and you didn't know how to fight back, Harry knew from experience all you really wanted to do was vanish. Maybe not being in the spotlight would give Albus the courage James and Lily got when they were in it. And maybe when he swung the cloak over his shoulders, Albus would also feel as if his father was resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

**A/N: three updates in twenty-four hours. Crazy, huh? This one was a true drabble. I usually like showing not telling, but it was fun to pick apart the Potter kids. I've got all these ideas of how they are and it's fun to just lay them out there. They've all got their flaws and their strengths and their own struggles. Al's happen to be bullying. He gets bullied a bit. There's a chapter in my stor**y **'Snapshots' about that and some other stuff pertinent to this. I hope you didn't mind me just laying it out there rather than giving you words and actions and thoughts and letting you build your own perceptions of them. **


	155. August 4

_Billet-Doux__: a love letter._

**August 4, 1997**

She was still asleep when he slid out of their bed, sprawled across the whole thing as only she could sprawl. He had to extricate himself from her warm, sleep-heavy limbs with the precision of one excavating land mines. At last he managed it, but in his haste to leave the room, he stubbed his toe on the dresser. Cursing silently, he hopped into the hall, massaging the injured foot.

There was a small room at the end of the hallway that passed as an office only because someone at some time had managed to cram a desk into it and stocked it with ink and paper. He wedged himself into the chair and in the dawn light just creeping in through the curtains, began to scratch out a note. He tried several times to pin down exactly what he felt, to explain to her what was in his heart and mind. But each attempt ended crumpled in the bin with thick scribbles through words that were too small, too dense, too stoic to express what he wanted. Each explanation, no matter how crisp and rational it began, inevitably tumbled into a rambling, circular barrage of excuses.

Throwing down the quill, he gave up. There was no way to explain it. No way she would understand. What could he leave her with that would be sufficient? So he tore off another small piece of parchment and scribbled the only explanation he had, the only thing that could capture the thoughts tumbling through his mind at high speed.

Nymphadora Tonks woke to an empty bed. Not unusual. Slowly, groggily, she swung herself upright. A wave of nausea rolled over her and when she'd finished dealing with that, she went downstairs to an empty kitchen. Not _entirely _unusual. She went to grab his coat from the hook, but it wasn't there. She grabbed her mother's instead and slipped out into the due-slicked lawn of an empty back garden.

The sitting room, the bathroom, the office, the scullery, even the basement – they were all empty. Her mother still slept upstairs, but the rest of the house was empty. And that was when she found the scrap of paper on his nightstand. There were five words on it. Just five.

_I love you too much_.

And they told her everything.

**A/N: Short and… well, maybe not sweet. I was wondering what I would write for this one. It's for Weasleylover10 who wanted some Remus/Tonks. I'm sorry it wasn't fluff, but I hope you like it anyway. Love you all! **


	156. August 5

_Compeer__: close friend; comrade._

**August 5, 2034**

"…_The true nature of friendship is needing nothing but your friends' happiness to be happy, nothing but their sorrow to be sorrowful. I've never had better friends than the two of them, so tonight I must be the happiest guy in the room. I love you guys, and I wish you all the blessings in the world…. To the happy couple!"_

She really was beautiful, he thought, watching from a dim edge of the dance floor as they spun and swayed, completely in opposition to the fast tempo of the music. Her hair shimmered golden beneath the laced veil, her white dress swirled like a wave around her curving waist. She threw her head back and laughed as he dipped her and they were both _so _happy. Yes, she really was beautiful.

"Hugo Weasley, best man and faithful comrade," said Lily, appearing suddenly at his side with two drinks in hand. "_This _is where you've been lurking?"

She nudged his shoulder and slipped the drink into his hand, leaning forward to look at his face. She followed his gaze to their friends, newly-married and in a golden bubble of jubilation in the middle of the room.

"It was a nice ceremony," Lily said.

He nodded.

"Your speech was beautiful," she added, nudging him again. "Who knew Hugo Weasley was so eloquent?"

She laughed, but he didn't. "Yours was nice, too."

Lily snorted. "I didn't even touch on the 'true nature of friendship'. Really, Hue, you did good."

"Thanks." Hugo tipped his head back and downed half his drink in one swallow.

Lily sighed. "I'm sorry, mate." She murmured, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"What for?" he asked. As he watched their friends dance, Melody buried her smile in Mark's shoulder and he kissed her temple. When she pulled back to look at him, there was so much adoration there, Hugo could feel the reflecting rays ten feet away.

"Watching the love of your life marry someone else always sucks," Lily said softly. "It sucks even more when they both happen to be your best friends. Being the best man is just the cherry, huh?"

Hugo finally looked away from the bride and groom, nodded into his drink. Lily wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

"Like I said Hue, I'm sorry. How about you and me steel the wine fountain and get pissed up on the roof?"

Hugo managed a strangled laugh and allowed her to pull him to his feet. "Make sure you get the Gin from Ben Jordan."

Lily laughed and slipped a silver flask out of her purse with a roguish grin. He shook his head at her.

At the door, Hugo cast one last lingering glance at Mark and Melody. Lily tugged on his hand.

"I know you don't want to hear it right now," she said gently. "But you're going to find an amazing girl one day and fall madly in love all over again. You're a catch, Hue. And she'll be lucky to have you."

But she was wrong, Hugo thought as he followed Lily up the dark stairwell. He would always be hopelessly in love with Mark Forester.

**A/N: Alright, this sprang from me watching Love Actually and St. Elmo's Fire over the holidays, both of which have the romantic dilemma of being in love with your best friend's wife, and both set it up like it might be the best friend first. I love both movies, but I really wish just one of them had gone through with the less-played-out best friend avenue. **

**Anyway, I've got about four more stories for the first ten reviewers over 1000 lined up. I'll get to them soon, promise guys! **

**Love you all!**


	157. August 8

_Orectic__: of or pertaining to a desire._

**August 8, 2020**

"Dad, that's not fair!" Albus fumed.

He had leapt to his feet some time ago, knocking his chair to the floor, and now stood gripping the edge of the table with a furious, vice-like grip, scowling mutinously across the kitchen at his father calmly boiling water for potatoes.

"Maybe not, but that's my decision," Harry told him evenly.

"Well it's bull –"

"Albus Severus Potter, mind your tongue," Ginny admonished, coming around the corner into the kitchen with a classic Mrs. Weasley expression in place.

"But he's being a –"

"Don't talk about your father that way."

"Or _to _your mother that way."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I grew up with six brothers. Believe me, dear, I knew what you were going to say. Now," she turned to Harry, who was still coolly minding the stove. "What is this all about?"

"Our son wants to spend a few days at a friend's house, and I told him 'no'," Harry explained.

"You said 'under no circumstances will that happen'," Albus accused. "I'm not in trouble, I got good marks last year, I've put up with James all summer. He's just being a jerk!"

Harry closed his eyes and took a slow breath through his nose.

"May I ask why you told him he couldn't go?" Ginny inquired.

"I told him his friend could come stay with us," Harry went on, ignoring the question.

"But he _can't_ because he's going on holiday to France on Friday and his mum wants him to stay at home and help pack and things," Albus interjected.

"Which friend is it?" Ginny asked suspiciously, looking between her son and husband.

"Go on," Albus prompted, crossing his arms. "Tell Mum why you won't let me go."

"Scorpius invited him to stay the week in Wiltshire. At Malfoy Manor." Harry turned enough to meet Ginny's eyes, see understanding blaze there.

"For everything he's said about not judging people on where they come from, giving second chances, being all warm and friendly to Scorpius when he comes over here, he hates the Malfoys just as much as ever!" Albus shouted, flinging a condemning hand toward his father. "He's a hypocrite!"

"Albus, go upstairs," Ginny said shortly.

"You're on his side?" he demanded, voice rising an octave in indignation.

"Yes," Ginny said simply. "Now go up to your room and I'll be up to talk to you in a minute."

Albus gave her an incensed glare as he stalked past her to the stairs.

"I live in a family of bloody hypocrites!" they heard just before his bedroom door slammed.

Harry let out a gusty breath as he turned to face his wife. Ginny crossed the room and wound her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead into his shoulder.

"How do we explain this to him?" Harry asked exhaustedly.

Ginny shook her head against his chest.

"You know…" she said slowly. "Malfoy's already in France. You had to approve his passport, remember?" She pulled back to look at him, and Harry gave a barely perceptible nod. "Well, maybe it would be alright –"

"No," Harry interrupted shortly, pulling away from her to turn back to the stove. "It's not the people so much as the house. You should know what sort of things have been horded in there better than anyone."

Ginny sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath, stepping back. He whipped around, horror and apology all over his face.

"I didn't mean – I was talking about your dad leading the raids. I'm sorry, Gin, I wasn't thinking –"

"It's fine," she assured him, waving away his concern. "It was almost thirty years ago, Harry. I'm over it. But Scorpius has grown up in that house," she went on, a placatory note entering her voice. "I'm sure his parents have made sure he can't get into anything. It's the only time he'll be able to spend with Scorpius all summer between our holiday to Romania and their holiday to France. Harry, it's different for you and me, but Albus doesn't have to carry around our horrors."

She added the last bit softly, gently enough for him to consider it, glancing toward the stairs. After a moment, he shook his head.

"I can't. Too much has happened in that house. Too much –" he broke off, squeezing his eyes shut as the echoes of screaming, glass shattering, shrieked curses swelled around him. He saw pale, starved faces and ornate rugs sodden in crimson pools, felt an iron hand around his throat and silver streaked behind his eyelids. "He'll just have to understand that he can't always have what he wants, even if he's earned it."

"I'll try to explain," Ginny murmured, nodding. She brushed a kiss on the edge of his jaw and turned to follow Albus up the stairs.

**A/N: This one's actually the proper length! Anyway, thank you all so very much for reviewing and please please keep it up! 113 more before the end of the year? I'll offer crazy fanfiction-related rewards to the first ten reviewers over 1,000. **

**But I do know quantity and review profit isn't everything, so I hope you enjoyed this little bit. I've always imagined something like this must have happened…. If you were tapped into my 'reading the books' story, I had intended to include this memory in the Malfoy Manor chapter. RIP, that story. **


	158. August 14

_Aseptic__: free from living germs of disease._

**August 14, 2007**

She couldn't touch him, not really. She could splay her fingers over the curve of his chest, feel the thrust of his little heart beating zealously against her palm, even press a kiss to the ruffled black hair that stuck up like tiny feathers all around his head. But there was always the smooth, plastic feel of the charms all around him, shielding him from all the microscopic dangers his crashed immune system couldn't fight. They saved his life, but they also kept him always a breath away from her.

Ginny stood over her son's cot as the sounds of a hospital washed around her, watching Al's green eyes follow the mobile of wooden birds flapping over his head. She watched his tiny lips flutter behind the pink haze covering his nose and mouth, watched the rise and fall of his thin, bare chest, the fluctuating color of the band around his wrist. He squawked to himself and beat the mattress contentedly with his flailing limbs, all the while transfixed with the birds circling overhead. You wouldn't know that yesterday, this same rosy-cheeked little boy had been blue-lipped and shaking so hard his cot rattled against the wall.

Six weeks. This was all because of the six weeks Al couldn't wait to be born. This wasn't the first time something as ordinary as a cold had planted itself in his lungs and brought his immune system to its knees, but it was the first time in a long time. Even though he wasn't a tiny, fragile newborn, he still seemed to be swallowed by the cot, the soft clamor and vastness of a hospital, and she couldn't even take him into her arms. Mothers were meant to protect their children, but how could she do that if she carried might carry the danger?

Ginny kept one hand over Al's chest, taking comfort from its steady rise and fall, the warmth that seeped into her fingers, but she let her other hand flutter to the barely-perceptible bump of her belly. _You_, she thought sternly at the baby, _had better stay put until I tell you otherwise._

**A/N: So this is kind of companion to 'Timing is Everything' but worth the read even if you haven't checked out that story, I hope. Harry and Ginny went through a lot with Al when he was very young, healthwise and development-wise. He ended up a normal kid, of course (well, as normal as one can be with that name and that family). Right, so hope to hear from you ;)**


	159. August 19

_Loadstar__: something that serves as a guide or on which the attention is fixed._

**August 19, 1998**

The day was quiet. Even the sunlight fell softly, creeping quietly across the floor as if afraid to squeak a floorboard. Harry knew they were all around somewhere, maybe even snatching glances at him, wondering. He'd been on the living room rug for hours. They must be wondering. But they didn't ask, didn't even make a sound, so he didn't worry about them.

He didn't know what to do anymore. For so long, he'd been running. To fight, to protect, to do what he alone could do, what _must _be done. Running, running, running to Voldemort and the end because he couldn't see anything past that. And now… it wasn't just that he was there, in that future he couldn't see. He was still running, but the point his world had revolved around for so long was gone and he was flung, weightless, into space. He ran furiously and went nowhere, and there was no direction, no way to know which way was up.

He needn't fear wandering out of his own head when he slept, never mind that his own head was the last place he wanted to be these days. They needn't fear the shadow of death anymore; it had come and gone and taken what it would. Their lives were free and clear and _theirs_ to live as they pleased… only his life was a lot longer than it had looked before. _This is it, what you fought for._ But nobody had told him the steps between 'they lived' and 'happily ever after.'

They were starting to worry about him, Harry could tell. Now that they'd all remembered how to live again. Even George knew how, even if sometimes he didn't want to. But they were noticing things. Noticing that Harry would flee the Burrow before dawn, as if the walls were aflame. Noticing that he would be gone for hours Merlin knew where, and sometimes he'd come back shivering even though it was the middle of summer or drenched even though the sun beat down on them. Ron whispered to Hermione about how he didn't sleep. Molly whispered to Arthur about how he barely ate. And they watched him now, all the time. He liked it better when they couldn't see past their own fingers.

That's why Andromeda had come today, he knew. Mrs. Weasley had asked her, like she'd done often enough because that house was too empty and isolated for an old woman and a baby day and night, night and day. But she'd also asked because when Teddy came, Harry stayed.

He didn't know why exactly, why he couldn't bring himself to run when the baby was in the house. He should have, Harry knew that. The boy was him all over again and it was his fault. He hadn't made Remus and Tonks come. He hadn't planned the battle. He hadn't thrown the curses. They certainly hadn't charged into the fray shouting his name. But one day that boy of theirs was going to ask where they were and why, and then why, if Harry was supposed to be the savior of the Wizarding world, he hadn't saved _them_? He should run from that. But he couldn't.

Harry leaned on one elbow, looking down at the baby. Teddy kicked and wriggled on his blanket, his eyes, big and blue just now, wandering unseeingly across the ceiling. They stopped on Harry's face, barely a foot above him, and his gummy mouth opened in a gurgle. Mrs. Weasley had told him babies could only see about eight inches in front of them, but it felt like their gazes were locked, green in blue, blue in green.

No, Harry decided. Teddy was not like him. He owed it to Remus and Tonks, to Andromeda, to Teddy himself to ensure that never happened. However much he didn't want to be the one answering the questions, it had to be him. Just like it had to be him in the Great Hall. Something was changing then, he could feel. Maybe it had been changing for a while and only now did he feel it. A shifting of centers, gravity's slow return, something to pull him up, out of the storming sea. Another thing – a better thing – to fill up his future.

And suddenly he knew which way was up again.

**A/N: This word belonged to them the first moment I saw it. It's been a whole ruddy month, I know, and I did not finish June. But I hope you liked this anyway. Check my profile for my excuses, and maybe drop me a line anyway? Thanks for everything! **


	160. August 21

_Velleity__: volition in its weakest form._

**August 21, 1997**

Remus wound the word through his fingers and filled his lungs with it, let it drip from his lips and stretch from ear to ear. _Vell-e-ity. _Velleity is man's greatest vice. Rothum had said it last night, and the word had stuck to Remus's every thought since then. It was him, he thought, in a nutshell.

He wanted to go home. This dusty, tumble-down house full of people like him – werewolves, outcasts, cowards, whatever they were called – was not where he wanted to be. All he had to do was throw his meager possessions into a bag, walk thirty feet out the front door, and turn on the spot, and he would be back at Ted and Andromeda's gate. He wanted that more than anything, but the thought of the greeting he would receive trampled what little will he had left after the terror of what carrying his child might do to his wife.

Harry had been right. For all the truth might , he'd been right. Remus was a coward, and he always had been. Hadn't it always been like this?

He had wanted to be a part of Harry's life, craved the echoes of Lily and James he would find in their son like a drug, but what had he done about it? He did not have the excuse of death or bars to keep him away, yet he had never even sent a birthday card. He was sure, now, that the sting of that abandonment had reverberated through Harry's accusations three weeks ago and that he had had it a long time coming.

Remus had wanted to see Sirius in Azkaban, to look into his face just once and make him describe every detail of the moment he had decided to condemn James and Lily and the baby to death. But there was always a reason not to go. He had thought about offering himself as Secret Keeper, but the chance to open his mouth had never seemed to come. He had known he should spill his guts to Dumbledore about James and Sirius and Peter being animagi, but always managed to convince himself it didn't matter. He had come close to letting loose and telling James and Sirius exactly what he thought of the way they treated everyone else, but had always swallowed the words at the last minute.

There were girls before Tonks he could have gotten to know better, letters he could have written petitioning the legal discrimination that made his blood boil, old friends he could have stayed in touch with. But he'd let his own fears and doubts fester into gruesome certainties that drenched any volition he might have had.

Well, enough was enough.

**A/N: Remus is a fascinating character to me. Probably one of the most fascinating because of his unique situation, his reserved character that begs being read into, and the nest-to-nothing we know about his life outside of Harry and his father. Anyway, I know this was slightly more drabble-y than I like, but it was an interesting dissection that I needed. Hope you enjoyed it anyway! And for all of you who still faithfully keep up with my stuff, I can't beghin to tell you how grateful I am. **


	161. August 24

_Concertina__: to fold, crush together, or collapse in the manner of a concertina. _

**August 24, 1978**

He saw it again and again. The way she had just crumpled to the pavement, a surprised look frozen on her face, long red hair fanning out. He never heard the smack when she'd hit the ground, but Remus had. He'd been right next to her, fighting his own battle, but he hadn't been quick enough to help her. Now he sat across from James, head in his folded arms as they waited. Sirius had disappeared half an hour ago for a smoke.

James didn't know why he'd started with the disgusting habit and had threatened everything from his motor bike to his flask to get him to stop. Right now, though, he found himself wishing he were outside lighting up alongside him, just to get out of this too-small, too-cluttered makeshift waiting room.

They couldn't go to St. Mungo's. It was too crowded, too dangerous, and too nosy. On top of that, it was too far away. They were in Liverpool, in the back of an abandoned factory. He, Remus, and Frank Longbottom sat on dusty boxes in an old office. In the office across the hall there were a handful of cots hastily summoned by Edgar Bones, resident Healer. He had laid her on the one at the end, by the window. It was covered in old newspapers, and he figured she might like to have something to read when she woke up. Caradoc Dearborn was in the bed next to her. There were others, too, but James hadn't stayed in the room long enough to recognize them. Frank's wife Alice had taken him gently by the elbow and led him across the hall almost the moment he'd stood up.

"Edgar's good," Frank told him now, pulling the icepack away to check on the burn marks streaking his left arm. "He's healed almost every injury we've brought to him."

But James still saw it again and again; the way she just fell, folded to the ground in that burst of orange light, down in a second. The way her head had lolled limply when he'd finally managed to reach her side and scoop her up.

"_Almost _every injury," Remus mumbled into his arms.

"Shut up, Moony," James said harshly. More harshly than he meant.

"Well it's what he said," Remus slung back, head shooting up to look at James with wide, horrified eyes.

They had never seen such devastation so quickly. Bodies had littered the ground, flames leaping in half-collapsed buildings. And that laughter. It had been _his _laughter; James knew it. _He _had been there, for who else could have such an inhuman sound for a laugh?

"Don't get shirty with each other," Frank said grimly, wincing as he adjusted his icepack. "You signed up for this, remember? Her too. You never win anything without taking hits." Seeing both James and Remus blanch, he added hastily, "But like I said, Edgar's got a good track record with injuries."

He studied them as they settled back into the strangely tense apathy of this sort of waiting. James knew what he must see: two naïve kids barely eighteen spattered with the marks of a battle they obviously weren't nearly prepared to witness. That sense of adulthood that had come with finishing school and joining the order had dissipated like breath on a cold night the moment the curses had started flying. What the hell had they thought they were doing?

The door opened and both James and Remus leapt to their feet at the same moment. Alice was there, her braid coming out and her hands stained with red. She seemed dazed and James's stomach twisted painfully. But then she smiled.

"She's waking up," Alice told them breathlessly.

James was past her and across the hall in three steps. He slid past Edgar Bones and dove for the end cot by the window.

"Scottish boy's missing terrier found in New York Harbor," she croaked, rolling her gaze from thw window to him. "I always like happy endings."

"Lily," he whispered, knees hitting the floor as he let out a hysterical sort of laugh.

She fumbled to find his fingers, trying to lift her lips into a smile.

"Don't think you can get rid of me that easily, Potter."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Evans."

**A/N: … hi? Um, yeah, so sorry for dropping off of the face of the internet there. Got super busy with school stuff. I'm here in the dorms now. Crazy orientation stuff is winding down and classes don't start until Tuesday, so I thought I'd let you all know what was going on, but I hate A/N chapters, so I wrote one more day. This one's for Oneofthosepeopleonthestreet who asked me a very long time ago for some Jily :) Here you are. Kind of. **

**Anyway, so I'm NOT abandoning this fic. Or any of my fics. But I am dialing the FF way down. It's because of college. I'm going to have to keep a 3.0 to keep my scholarships, so no FF writing for me until Fall break at the very earliest and probably not until Christmas, really. I'm sorry! I just don't have time anymore! But that doesn't mean I won't be checking for reviews now and again in between classes, hint hint. And of course, feel free to PM me any time! I'll probably get back to you, it's just writing takes up too much time, you know? **

**Thank you all so much! Hope to keep hearing from you!**

**Oh, yes, and if you care, I've decided to spew out all the half-finished FF documents I've been hording on this computer since I'm clearly not going to be finishing them any time soon and they deserve SOME purpose. I figure even if I don't get around to finishing them, maybe they'll inspire someone else to take up their own project. I know that's how a lot of my stories get started. **


	162. August 31

_Gull__: to deceive, trick or cheat._

**August 31, 2017**

"Are you sure?"

No one ever said Harry Potter was above eavesdropping. In fact, he, Ron, and Hermione had held something of a record for it in their youth. He liked to think that he wielded his knack for stumbling upon (or stalking down, some might say) highly secretive, enormously important conversations with honor and skill. He only listened when it was a matter of life and death… in a roundabout way, sometimes, it was true, but still. The point was there was a line between secret and private and he treated it with the utmost respect.

A conversation between your godson and his 'secret' girlfriend was definitely over the line. He should just keep walking. Ginny was waiting downstairs for him and the extra card table that hovered a foot in front of him. He should just. Keep. Going.

But when your godson's using _that _tone of voice… well, just _try _walking away. There were certain reflexes, instincts one developed when they became responsible for another human being. You discern hungry cries from scared cries, reach for their hand at a street corner, and have a heart attack at every loud noise if you can't see them right in front of you. It doesn't matter how old they get or if you're a war hero, the impulse to protect is just there, rooted deep inside you. The biggest arachnophobic will smash a spider with his bare palm if it means getting rid of the fear in his daughter's eyes.

And, well, no one ever said Harry Potter got control over his curiosity.

So instead of joining his wife downstairs and pretending he was completely oblivious to the romance that had sprung up between Teddy and Victoire over the past year, he stepped closer to the door they were currently holding a hushed conversation behind.

"Are you really sure?" Teddy was asking.

"Of course I'm bloody sure, Teddy," Victoire snapped. "I checked three times. Look."

There was a pause, then Teddy sighed. "There it is. Can't get much clearer than that, can you?"

"Nope."

There was another sigh and the sound of footsteps, pacing.

"What're we gonna do?" Teddy asked.

"I suppose we'll have to give it up. We can't very well keep it ourselves."

"I could –"

"Teddy, you're training to be an Auror. You're gone almost sixty hours a week. Who do you think's going to look after it? Harry and Ginny? We've got to give it up. "

"Yeah, alright. Guess it's up to you, anyway." Another pause. "How are we gonna tell them?"

"I thought maybe we could just show them these, see how they react."

"D'you think they'll be angry?"

"They'll be upset. There's no getting around that. But eventually they'll just have to accept it."

"Guess we screwed up, didn't we?"

At these words, Harry's hover charm slipped. The table came crashing down, landing painfully on his foot. The door flew open and Teddy stood goggling at him in the doorway.

"Er, hi," Harry said sheepishly.

"I think you dropped something," Teddy said politely, nodding toward the folded card table at Harry's feet.

"Thanks for telling me that, Ted," Harry nodded. He hesitated. "Is there… anything else you'd like to tell me? Or Victoire? Has she got anything that needs to be told?"

Teddy crossed his arms. "I don't think so."

Harry sighed and shoved the table out of his way. "Alright, you caught me, I was listening," he revealed, pushing past Teddy into the room. "But I just want you to know –"

He stopped short when he saw his niece. A small, wriggling ball of fluff was squirming in her arms, licking her face. A stack of posters advertising a picture of the dog and a plea for its return sat beside her.

"Yeah?" Teddy prompted, ducking around Harry to join Victoire on the floor. The puppy rolled into his lap.

"Er – where'd the –"

"Me and Vic found it wondering around the village," Teddy explained. "But it turns out someone's looking for it. We were just talking about how to tell the kids. They've grown rather fond of the little bugger."

"Right," said Harry, feeling as if a buffalo had just been removed from his chest. "Of course, they would be upset, wouldn't they? Maybe even angry. Shouldn't have let them get attached, you're right."

"You look a bit peaky," Teddy smirked. "Why don't you sit down?"

Obediently, Harry sank into a chair, still staring at the dog.

"You look pretty alarmed over a little puppy, Uncle Harry," Vicotoire observed, plopping the fuzz ball into his lap.

"Well, I didn't know it was a dog," he mumbled, scratching the thing behind its ears.

"Oh? What did you think we were talking about?" Teddy asked, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

"Well – I – you made it _sound_ – nothing," Harry spluttered.

"Because what would Vic and I _really _be talking about?" Teddy pressed. "We're just friends, after all. You _know _everything between us is completely platonic. Like cousins, like –"

"Alright, alright," Harry interrupted, holding up his hands. "I know you two are together –"

"Aha!" Teddy shouted, leaping up triumphantly.

" – and, well, you made it sound like you – like you were –"

Victoire gasped, clapping a hand to her heart. "Uncle Harry, you didn't really think I was –"

"Well that's what it sounded like!" Harry defended as Victoire shook her head, tutting. Teddy was nearly on the floor laughing. Harry shoved him backward, flushing. "You little smartarse. You planned this, didn't you?"

Teddy straightened up, grinning like a madman. "Well, the dog was convenient. Now, what have we learned?"

"That you're getting stuck with filing for the rest of the month for nearly giving the Head of the Auror Office a stroke," Harry muttered.

"No, I don't think that's it," Teddy contradicted. "More along the lines of don't keep secrets."

"But – you two were the ones keeping it secret!" Harry exclaimed indignantly.

Teddy heaved himself to his feet and scooped the puppy out of Harry's lap. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "I'm sorry we had to do that, but you'll be better off for it," he said solemnly.

Then, he put his arm around Victoire, and the two of them, still laughing, left the room.

**A/N: For Pan's Box, because they asked for something funny and this was the best I could come up with. **


	163. September 16

_Coetaneous__: of the same age or duration. _

**September 16, 2056**

"Here, look at this one," Ron smirked waving another photograph yellowed with age in Harry's face.

He had to squint through thick glasses now, raising a wrinkled hand to hold it steady. A raspy chuckle slipped through his lips.

"Our third year?" he guessed as he watched his and Ron's photographic selves dragging a very unwilling Hermione toward the lake.

"The first weekend back," Hermione confirmed, leaning over to see, too. "I was about ready to curse you two."

Ron sniggered at the memory. "You wouldn't've. Not then. You wanted me to like you too bad. And it's not right to pick on someone smaller than you, so you wouldn't have cursed Harry, either."

"I wasn't smaller than her," Harry protested indignantly.

"Yes you were, look."

"I'm crouching, see? My knees were bent."

He looked to Hermione for help, but she was obviously trying not to giggle. "You were an inch shorter than me until our fifth year."

He gave her a betrayed look.

Ron was shuffling through the heap of photos spread over the table between them. He pulled out another one and slapped it in front of Harry, who bent forward to look. It was the two of them together at the world cup, arms slung over each other's shoulders. They both had on shamrock top hats, and the four-leafed clover in Harry's barely came up to Ron's ear.

"You remember the time Kenneth Towler took you for a first year at the welcome feast? Chased you halfway down the Gryffindor table shouting 'first years, this way!' till he saw your face." Ron was guffawing now. "His expression…"

"You only wish you looked younger than you were," Harry said slyly, sliding a different photo at Ron. This one was slightly less dated, showing them at James's wedding. Ron's hair was streaked liberally with gray and receding, lines crinkling the corners of his eyes and mouth, but Harry might have been James's brother.

Ron snorted, running a finger over the stoop that had already been starting in his shoulders then. "Touché, my friend."

Harry, now busy smiling fondly at one of Lily's baby pictures, missed the look that passed between Ron and Hermione.

"What about this one?" Hermione asked, reaching randomly for another photo.

Harry shifted carefully in his chair, leaning on a polished wooden cane to stay upright. He had to bring it close to his face to see through the cataracts that clouded his once-bright eyes. The picture wavered in his slightly trembling grip. Hermione reached out to steady it for him.

"That's John's new baby," he said with the note of pride he always got when he talked about his grandchildren. "Teddy says they're coming to Sunday dinner. Izzy and the girls, too. Good lad, Teddy is. He and Vic've been by nearly every day this week, did you know? I haven't seen so much of him since he first got his own flat. I bet that picture's in here, too…."

As he bent over the table, Ron and Hermione exchanged another look. Harry, as was his long-standing policy, pretended not to notice. He didn't need to talk about it; he could feel it in his bones, in the ache of his joints and the slowing of his movements. And when he stood, he would be shorter than Hermione again, and Ron would probably take his elbow to steady him, even though he was younger than both of them. In the last year, he seemed to have aged ten.

"Look at this," he said, chuckling again as he held up a photo from their first year.

"The first and last snowball fight Hermione ever had with us," Ron grinned,

"It's a wonder I ever stayed friends with you two," she said, shaking her head as she looked at her twelve-year-old self being pinned between the two boys as Ron smashed a snowball in her face.

"Oh, come off it, you loved us," said Harry.

Her voice was almost a whisper as she looked up at him. "Yes, I did."

**A/N: Do I need to leave anybody chocolates with this? I've never laid down words this far in the future. Mostly because it makes me kind of sad. I always thought surviving two killing curses must have left more of a mark on Harry than just a few cuts and bruises, but he didn't feel the effects until much later. Anyway, another chip into September. Hope to hear from you! **


	164. September 25

_Privity__: participation in the knowledge of something private or secret._

**September 25, `1972**

"Oi, you git!" Sirius chucked his shoe across the dormitory, but James dodged it easily, laughing.

"Sending midnight love letters, are you Black? Who's the lucky lady?" he cackled, flipping through the handsomely embossed stationary he'd snatched out of Sirius's trunk.

"It's from my cousin," Sirius snapped, making a grab for James as he leapt onto Sirius's bed.

"Your cousin? I knew your family was messed up."

"It was a joke! She gave it to me so I'd have to write her more to get rid of it."

Sirius tackled James and the pair of them landed on the floor with a crash.

"Uh-huh, that's what they all say," James gasped through a painful smirk, even as Sirius dug a knee into his gut.

"Give it here, you little –"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Gross, Potter. Do you want me to puke all over you, bringing up _that _image?"

They scuffled on the floor, hopelessly crushing the stationary underneath them as Peter watched in bemusement from his trunk, until the dormitory door opened and Remus slouched in. James and Sirius scrambled up at once, their tussle forgotten. All three boys stared as Remus collapsed on his bed with a groan, hiding his face in the pillow.

"You look horrid," James offered bluntly.

"Thanks," came Remus's muffled, sarcastic reply.

Sirius bounced down on the mattress beside him. "Rough weekend at home, mate?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Remus mumbled. "Mum's still ill."

"I think you caught whatever it is she's got," Peter piped up, climbing onto the end of the bed.

"Yeah, maybe…."

"You should go see Pomfrey," James advised.

"I will… just want to sleep for a bit…."

"You think it'll do any good?" Sirius asked doubtfully. "I mean if she couldn't fix you up last night…."

Remus's eyes flew open. "I was at home last night," he said, panicked.

Sirius exchanged looks with Peter. "Well, Nancy Brunswick says she saw you in the hospital wing."

"She's barmy," Remus declared, voice shooting up three octaves.

"Alright, alright," James interjected soothingly. "We believe you. You're our mate, so we trust everything you tell us. Because you're our mate. And that's what mates do. They trust each other. Trust, friendship. They go hand in hand."

"Because friends have your back," Sirius chipped in. "No matter what you are."

James and Sirius both turned to Peter. James punched him in the back.

"Er, yeah. You can count on us, mate," he said hastily.

"Because we're mates," James added. "No matter what."

Remus looked between them, all three concentrating hard on him. "Right. Thanks. I mean, I'd know where I was better than Nancy Brunswick anyway."

"Yeah, yeah you would," Sirius agreed, getting up from the bed and kicking the wardrobe.

"Well, we'll let you get some sleep then," James said, dragging Sirius to the door. Peter jumped up to follow as if he'd been burned by the quilt.

"I don't believe him!" Sirius complained the moment the door had shut.

"We should talk to Nancy, slip her some excuse," Peter said, scurrying along behind them.

"She didn't see him," James threw over his shoulder, rolling his eyes.

"But you said –"

"Eye-witnesses and he _still _won't come clean," Sirius exclaimed in frustration. "We practically _told _him we knew."

"When _are _we going to tell him we know?" Peter asked.

"Next month," James decided.

Sirius swung around to a halt and Peter tripped over the steps.

"When exactly did we decide this?" Sirius demanded.

"I don't think I can take another atrocious excuse," said James, continuing on down the staircase without a backward glance at his gaping comrades. "If he still feeds us some story next month, we're going to have to come clean ourselves. Put the poor sod out of his misery. It's pathetic watching him scramble for a cover story when it's obvious he's about to pass out."

"He's going to flip out," Sirius warned, jumping down three steps to catch up with James. "You know he will."

James shrugged. "He flips every time we get a detention."

"But this isn't a detention," Peter pointed out.

"Can't be that much different," said James with another shrug. "We'll wait it out like we always do, and he'll come back down to earth and realize we aren't running away in terror, and it'll all be out in the open."

"You make it sound like baking cookies or something," Sirius muttered.

James smirked. "I plan on writing a book. _Befriending Werewolves Made Easy_."

"Give away all our secrets and Remus won't have any reason to stick around. He'll have better friends than us in five seconds."

"That's ridiculous," James said haughtily. "No one can have better friends than us. We're top of the heap."

"Yeah, alright, Potter. You just keep thinking that."

"You know it's true Black. You wouldn't trade me for all the gold in Gringotts. I bet those love letters were for me."

"Shut up!"

**A/N: James and Sirius everyone. It's been a very long time since I've written them, hasn't it? Sorry I haven't been on the ball with updates. My internet went out in Winter Storm Draco (lol). You never appreciate how much you miss something until it's gone. But it's back now, and since we're talking about friends and best friends, I'll take a moment to advertise my new competition over on the HPFC. The Yellow Rose Bowl: a friendship competition. Check it out :) And don't forget to drop me a line here! 59 reviews to go and 8 days to get them! Remember, four-digit reviewers get fabulous prizes! **


	165. October 8

_Apophasis__: denial of one's intention to speak of a subject that has already been named._

**October 8, 2012**

Lightening flashed through the tall, mullioned windows of the cavernous drawing room, sending jagged shadows up the rose-papered walls. Out in the garden, rain lashed at the bloomless stalks and thunder crashed overhead.

"Aren't you scared of the storm, then?" the bedraggled woman currently dripping all over the sofa asked.

Scorpius just shook his head, staring at her torn, too-small, robes and thick makeup running like paint down her cheeks. Her hair was a rat's nest and her shoes had spiky heels. His mother didn't even let the neighbor's collie into the house because she said it was a filthy mongrel, but she let this lady sit on the sofa. His father was right. He would never understand girls.

"Aren't you afraid the boogey man or somethin's gonna come out and gobble you up?"

"No such thing," Scorpius shrugged.

"Oh yeah? How do you know that?"

Scorpius rolled his gray eyes, just like his father's. "Everyone _knows _he's not real. Just a bogart. And my daddy's what other bogarts see when they look at each other, so there aren't any in all of Wiltshire."

"Well aren't you a little smart-arse. Just like your mum."

"You said a bad word."

"Well there're a lot worse words in the world, kid, I can tell you that."

She fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette and lit it with her wand, avoiding the little blond monkey and his inescapable gaze.

xXx

"There, you can give her that," Astoria said brusquely, shoving a tartan dressing gown into Draco's stomach.

"It was _you _who insisted she come in. I'd've turned her away at the door."

"How chivalrous."

"It's her own fault she's a little bint. I've got a family to deal with."

"She's still a _person, _Draco, and so are we. It's indecent to turn away something as pathetic as that, especially if you used to be… friendly."

"Stori, I've been well-shot of Pansy Parkinson since I was seventeen. Honestly."

Astoria slammed the cupboard door shut and turned around with a freshly-pressed quilt.

"It's not my fault she's here!" Draco objected indignantly to her glare. "And I'm certainly not the one asking you to be civil to her."

"I _have _to be civil to her because I have a big house and a rich husband and a charming little boy and she's got nothing but cigarettes. And it is in fact your fault, Draco Malfoy, but we aren't going to talk about the things you whispered to her in a dark four-poster fifteen years ago, or the way you used to slink around the house when she'd come to call like just talking to her was treason. We are going to be civil, gracious hosts to someone less fortunate than us tonight because that's all she is, isn't she Draco? Just an old classmate we pity, and there is no reason for you to stay as far away from her as possible."

Astoria pushed the drawing room door open. "Up to bed with you, Scorpius."

"Do I have to, Mother?"

"Yes, darling, you do."

"But I won't be able to sleep with the storm anyway."

"Then you can lie in bed and practice your spelling list."

She chivied him out the door, giving her husband a look as they brushed past. Draco let the door shut behind him. Pansy blew a smoke ring and looked over at him.

"I've made a real mess of it, haven't I?" she said with a hollow laugh. "Could use a real hero to pull me out of it." She gave him a sidelong look, a half-smile.

"Put something decent on," Draco told her, dropping the dressing gown into her lap. "And you should stop deluding yourself into thinking the things in your imagination are real. You're only going to be disappointed."

Pansy ground her cigarette into the soil of a potted plant with another empty peal of laughter.

"Looks like your six-year-old son is smarter than I am."

"We were all fucked up, Pansy. I managed to turn it around. You ought to let me have it."

She pulled the dressing gown over her scanty, soaked outfit and turned dull eyes upon him. "Well, you oughtn't to have fucked me up in the first place, then."

**A/N: Draco. Pansy, and Astoria for Oneofthosepeopleonthestreet. :) Hope you liked it! **


	166. November 15

_Dovetail__: to join or fit together compactly or harmoniously. _

**November 15, 1991**

Hermione Granger was almost always in the first straggling wave of students to arrive in the Great Hall before the breakfast food had even appeared. Most were born in on a tide of lost sleep, looking anxious or upset, and the rest simply had no one to wait for. All in all, it was not a very cheerful crowd. They all sat carefully apart, quiet, many staring sullenly at their plates with bloodshot eyes, or else buried themselves in homework.

She did not particularly mind being a part of this group. It was better than forcing herself into other people's conversations, or worse, being shut out of them. By her third month of school, these solitary, early breakfasts seemed peaceful.

Ron Weasley, on the other hand, would have slept through breakfast if he'd had it his way. But since coming to school, he hadn't had it his way. Not that he'd had it much his way at home, either, as a matter of fact, but he'd thought at Hogwarts he might be left alone some.

"Ron, hurry up!" Harry complained, pounding on the bathroom door as he passed it.

Ron spat a glob of toothpaste into the sink and called back for him to hold his hippogriffs. The prat was probably already dressed and ready to go. Seven-bloody-thirty in the morning for Merlin's sake, and Harry's throwing pillows at his head.

But if Ron was perfectly honest, he didn't actually mind it as much as he made out. After all, when was the last time someone wanted his company badly enough to drag him out of bed? Especially at seven-bloody-thirty when classes didn't start until nine. He contemplated how much having his company so valued weighed against an hour more of sleep as he opened the door.

Harry Potter was no stranger to sleepless nights. He observed the pale, red-eyed loners huddled over their oatmeal and marveled briefly that he wasn't among them. Not anymore. Not here at Hogwarts. Here there were people willing to get up at the crack of dawn just to have breakfast with him.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin when Harry and Ron swung themselves onto the bench on either side of her, their conversation wrapping around her like a blanket.

"I'm telling you, he's probably already got, like, six lethal poisons on his body somewhere," Ron said, reaching across Hermione for the stack of toast.

Harry shook his head. "Yeah, but what's a poison gonna do if he's jinxed on the floor?"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, smacking Harry's hand as he tried to snag a piece of bacon off her plate.

"Just half?" he begged, looking forlornly at the empty platter in front of them.

She rolled her eyes, but tossed a piece onto his plate. The grin he gave her was ridiculous.

"If Snape or McGonogall would do the other one in first," Ron answered, snatching his own strip of bacon before she could stop him. She smacked his arm.

"McGonogall, hands down," Hermione declared and Harry smirked.

"If they ever _dueled_, but I'd peg Snape as a killer before McGonogall," Ron insisted.

Keen blue eyes watched this natural ebb and flow from the staff table. In the past two weeks, something had sprung up between those three, like clear, sweet water from solid rock. It was barely a babble now as it tripped its way through the mountainside. But by the time it reached the ocean, it would be a roaring, frothing current sweeping away anything in its path. That perfectly tuned hum between them would crescendo into a ringing harmony.

Because when things fell together just right, the ordinary had a tendency to become the incredible.

**A/N: I dunno about this one. Dunno if it came together as I wanted it to. But anyway, Katrina Roxanne asked for some young trio stuff and I haven't written them in **_**ages **_**so here you are! I missed them and I hope you all enjoyed it. :) Oh, and sorry if there are any tense issues in this. I've been writing some more **_**21 Years Earlier **_**and find it rather difficult to switch between past and present tenses. **


	167. November 17

_Dog-ear__: to fold down the corner of a page in a book._

**November 17, 2005**

Between his seven years of school, his career as an Auror, and growing up with five brothers and Ginny, Ron Weasley should have had the best ducking reflex in Britain. As it was, however, the spool of ribbon aimed for his head bounced off his temple and rolled away under the sofa trailing a pink, silky tail. Hem managed to get his arms up in time to block the deluge of scrap paper, but that meant he didn't see the heave roll of parchment flying at him.

"Ow! Ah – bloody hell, Hermione, what's the _matter _with you?" he demanded, peeking cautiously between his arms at his wife.

"Do you know what these things are?" she snapped, gesturing at the fallen projectiles. She stood halfway up the stairs, wand still raised in her right hand, a book clutched in her left and an all-too-familiar furious expression on her face. Her long, bushy hair seemed to be trying to stand on end.

"Your only-slightly-less-dangerous substitute for canaries?" Ron guessed.

"These are all things you could use as _bookmarks_, Ron!" she fumed, stamping down the rest of the stairs and coming to stand before him, fists planted firmly on either side of her bulging belly. She flourished her book under his nose. "Why do you insist on defacing every book that comes into this house?"

She peeled apart a few pages, displaying the crumpled and creased corners to him.

"That's my book! I can do what I want with it." Ron said stubbornly.

Hermione thrust the book in his face with noise of frustration and attempted to storm into the kitchen, but her seven-months-along belly turned into more of an angry waddle.

"I like marking the places I want to go back to!" he explained following her. "It's not a crime, is it?"

Hermione slammed a cupboard door in response. Ron watched her angrily sloshing water in the kettle in preparation to make tea, allowing two years of marital experience to sink in.

"You're not just upset about the book, are you?" he inquired at last.

Hermione whipped around, hair flying. "Oh, yes, of course," she said, voice oozing sarcasm. "It can't _just _be the defacement of my most valued possessions that's got me this upset. It _has _to be something else. Something far more rational like the fact that after seven years of solid, relentless effort in MLE, the sexist bastards at the top are already deciding who will replace me in two months. Or it could be the fact that I've come to hate mirrors because I'm a bloody _elephant _these days, or just maybe that my feet hurt and your spawn is kickboxing with my bladder and no matter which way I lie down, I can't fall asleep! It obviously has to be one of those reasons because getting this upset over a load of crumpled corners is insane!"

By the end of her rant, Hermione's voice had risen to a bat's screech and tears had begun to pour down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily, sniffling behind her sleeve. Ron turned on his heel and disappeared into the sitting room. Hermione was about to melt into a sobbing puddle of pregnant hormones on the kitchen floor, feeling exactly as she had done in school with the two most emotionally awkward boys in the castle as her main source of comfort when he suddenly reappeared holding a small, blue photo album.

"I want to show you something," Ron said, guiding her gently to a chair with a hand between her shoulder blades and flipping the album open before her.

It was a picture taken almost two weeks before at Neville and Hannah's wedding. Hermione wanted to cringe away from the flash-glared image of herself seated in a corner of the hot, crowded ballroom draped in what most people must have assumed was a circus tent fashioned into dress robes to fit over her bulbous belly, shoes kicked off under the table and not even a drop of butterbeer to soothe the affair.

But Ron ran a finger reverently along her profile, wrapping his other arm around her expanded waist.

"Hannah made a pretty bride, but she didn't have anything on you," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her. He splayed his fingers over the round bump of their child and pulled back long enough to add, "And pretty soon you'll be replacing those sexist bastards at the top anyway."

Then he took the corner of the photo album page and firmly folded it over. A reluctant smile tugged up the corners of her mouth, and she took the dog-eared corner and pinched the crease hard so that it could mark the page for a long time to come.

**A/N: Woah, two updates in under a week, what is this? Crazy, huh? Well this one's for HermioneLunaPotter who pointed out to me that, for shipping these two as hard as I do, I have written very little about them. Mostly that is because I feel like JKR got them perfectly and I don't want to mess up the carefully balanced dynamic she set up. I hope I haven't done so here. They're not like they were in the books, but they're married now, so…. Anyway, thank you all for reading and don't forget to contribute to the review drive! **


	168. December 3

_Effervescent__: High-spirited; vivacious; lively._

**December 3, 2002**

Even on Andromeda's porch, pressed up so close to the door he was in danger of toppling through when it opened, sleet whipped against Harry's neck and blew down his collar. He stamped his feet as he waited to be let in, teeth chattering. Even the weather was bleak. It seemed to know he wasn't particularly in the holiday spirit. A ream of retrial requests had finally worked their way through the system, which meant that Harry had to carefully comb through all the details of Death Eater escapades, remaking decisions that had been some of the toughest of his life, and defending himself at every turn to the general and political public alike. Ron and Hermione had had a massive blow-out last month and were going on their second week of refusing to speak to one another, which meant that whether he was diving through the archives with Ron or researching potential legal loopholes with Hermione, all he heard was grinding teeth, short replies, and the occasional biting remark toward the other. And on top of this hellish combination at work, the Harpies had won the last round of semifinals, which meant they were off to train in Ireland for the next round, and every evening Harry came home to an empty, drafty cottage to go over files and files of war crimes alone. So it was fitting that it was sleet rather than snow, really.

The door flew open and Andromeda ushered him inside, tsking at the tattered traveling cloak Harry had yet to replace despite hers and Molly's numerous chidings. But the very last thing he wanted to do to fill up his lonely evening hours was venture into packed store where crowds could gape at him if they were polite and demand with unwarranted abrasiveness to know why such-and-such a Death Eater affiliate was being let go if they were not polite.

"You're going to be bedridden with pneumonia if you keep wearing that thing," Andromeda warned, watching Harry stomp his boots dry on the mat.

Well, if she didn't take ten minutes to open her bloody door, he wouldn't, but Harry bit back the retort because somewhere he knew it wasn't Andromeda he was upset with. He was actually rather glad to have something to do in the evening that wasn't work related or listening to Ron or Hermione rant, even if it would mostly be helping Andromeda with housework; Teddy had had a nasty bought of bronchitis all week and Harry didn't know if he would even be awake during his visit.

"How's the kid?" he asked instead, glancing anxiously toward the stairs.

Andromeda sighed, looking mildly exasperated, but before she could say a word, a door banged open on the second floor and a small, pajama-clad figure shot out onto the landing.

"Harry!" Teddy squealed shrilly and fairly flew down the stairs. Harry barely had time to open his arms before the little boy threw himself at him. "It's snowing!" Teddy declared in a voice so horse and raspy it made Harry wince. "Look out the window! Did you see? Go and look!"

He strained in Harry's arms for the curtained kitchen window even as a fit of deep, chest-aching coughs shook through him.

"Easy there, little man," Harry said, rubbing his back and shifting him in his arms to look worriedly at Andromeda. She just shook her head and threw up her hands.

"He's got a temperature of 38.8 and hasn't been able to breathe properly since Monday, but I'd have to tie him to the bedpost to keep him under the blankets."

"It's _boring_ not moving at all," Teddy complained, sniffling thickly and wiping his nose on his sleeve, reaching toward the window with his other hand.

His cheeks were flushed, his lips chapped, his hair matted to his brow, and every time he swallowed, he winced and gagged a little bit, but as he leaned out of Harry's arms to press his face against the chilly glass, his eyes still danced with excitement.

"We can make snow forts and go sliding and have Christmas soon!" he cried, and wriggled a little, whipping around suddenly to squeeze his arms and legs around Harry from the enthusiasm.

And Harry found himself laughing in spite of himself. "You bet we will. But only," he added as Teddy wheezed in a breath and started coughing again, "if you get well. Let's listen to Gran, shall we?"

He pressed a kiss to Teddy's hot cheek and headed for the sofa with a nod of approval from Andromeda, marveling at how a four-year-old running a fever and coughing up a lung was the one cheering _him _up.

**A/N: It has been… eek! Way too long since I've posted. But I'm still here, plugging away now that I've survived finals. I hope you lot are still out there, too! **


	169. December 17

**Warning: I feel like I should put a warning on this chapter because it gets a bit dark. I don't want to say explicitly. Nothing too bad. No one dies or is being abused or anything, but read with caution, alright?**

_Lagan__: anything sunk in the sea, but attached to a buoy or the like so that it may be recovered._

**December 17, 2024**

"Hey, what the ruddy hell are ya doin' out here?"

Lucy Weasley made no reply. She didn't turn to look at Howard Garfield as he blasted his way through the drifting snow with his wand, settled down beside her with some difficulty in all his coats and furs. She just huddled in the pool of her blue coat and stared out across the lake.

"Lucy, it's freezing," he said. "Come on, can't we go in and then do this you-don't-want-to-talk-but-I-can't-leave-you-alone business?"

Nothing. She might have been a statue, frozen solid in the wind. Merlin knew how long she'd been out here. It was lucky her cousins seemed to have an unlimited supply of cool things to solve every problem. Howard didn't understand that map Lily had pulled out to find her, but it had shown Lucy exactly where she was: on the far side of the frozen lake.

"Lucy, come on. What's wrong?"

In her bare fingers, raw pink from cold, Lucy clutched a jar of bluebell blames, curling her body around it, but they couldn't have given off much heat. Howard suddenly noticed her cheeks glistening, tears tracks that had frozen on her icy skin.

"Luce?"

He reached out a tentative hand, feeling awkward as he always did when broke the personal space rule people lived by. But he took her shoulders and turned her to face him. Something in her expression made his stomach churn with a different kind of chill.

"Lucy, you have to talk to me. I'm not leaving until you do, even if that means we both freeze to death out here and they have to dig out our iced-over bodies in the morning. Tell me what's wrong."

He shook her a little on the last word. Maybe he shouldn't have, maybe that was crossing a line because he was bigger and stronger than she was, but there was something stuck behind those big blue eyes of hers, and he was afraid of what might happen if he didn't unstick it.

It seemed to work. Lucy opened and closed her mouth like she was pumping words up from a rusted well. But then she pressed her lips together and her eyes filled with tears again. Howard had never believed girls and boys could really break each other's hearts, and certainly not his, but he felt it crack in that moment.

"Lucy!" he begged. "What's _wrong_? Is it Bridwell? Did she fail you on that quiz? Is some bloke being a piss-off? Is it… is it your dad? Tell me!"

"You don't want to know!" Lucy cried suddenly, ripping herself out of Howard's grip. "I don't want to tell you what's in my head because it's so completely horrible that if you don't have me committed and run the other way, this black vortex is just going to suck you in and spit you out!"

Howard felt winded. Sweet little Lucy Weasley did not say things like that.

"Well, now you have to tell me," he said.

Lucy let the bluebell jar roll out of her lap, curling up and hiding her face in her knees. Her shoulders shook and Howard realized she'd started sobbing. Merlin's – he shouldn't have come out here because he didn't know what to do about this in the slightest. He was about ready to go get Lily or Roxanne or Professor Longbottom or maybe even Madame Pomfrey, but something stopped him. He was afraid that if he left, he would never find her again, even with Lily's map. This was _Lucy_. He couldn't give up on Lucy.

"Please," he was surprised to find his voice cracking. "I need to know, Lucy. Someone needs… needs to know, even if it's not me, because… because otherwise you're going to be all alone in this. I promise, no judgments."

"You can't promise that," Lucy whispered, turning her face toward him.

"I just did, didn't I?"

"Howard," she whispered, reaching out a small hand to find him in the dark. He took it clumsily in his thick gloves. "I have a good life, don't I? I've got a mum and a dad and a sister who love me and a huge family, too. We're not filthy rich, but we've always had plenty. I've never messed up so bad I couldn't find my way out of it. Dad may spend all his time raving about Molly, but – but it doesn't mean he doesn't care, you know? Just that he forgets because she's everything he wished he'd been and I'm not. And there's nothing wrong with that.

"So why… why, on the night before my eighteenth birthday, do I just want to throw myself into the water and never come up? To just end it now, while I'm ready. Why don't I care how much that would kill our family? That it would leave you all alone? You know what Lucy means? It means light. But I'm just blundering around in the dark, and I don't know what to do once school's over or now even, and it would just be so much easier to… to…. Thinking about it is the only thing that _comforts _me. How twisted is that?"

Howard Garfield had never been good with words. He'd never been good with anything, really, especially not girls at all, much less the inconsolably sobbing type. But somehow he had come to be good with Lucy Weasley, and so he did the only thing he could think of. He pulled her into his arms and held on as hard as he could in the hopes that he could bring her back to the surface.

**A/N: Sorry for the whiplash moods going on here. I'm on an idea jag, so maybe that means more updates soon. Do you remember Howard and Lucy? I only did one other chapter with them, but I rather like them. I was never into next gen soap operas that didn't deal with Harry and his family, but Lucy is… a special case. **

**Anyway, I'd like to thank Oneofthosepeopleonthestreet who reviewed over and over again to push me over the 1,000 mark with a week to spare. It was a very nice Christmas gift :) although I do feel like it's cheating a bit and Oneofthosepeopleonthestreet's given me permission to delete a few of the random reviews, but I can't seem to find how to do it anymore. Can we still delete reviews? **

**But it was pretty great to finally break the 1,000 mark, and I'm so very grateful to everyone who helped me out. I'm going to stop begging for reviews because it's annoying and pathetic, but do keep in mind that I still love hearing from you guys, your opinions and ideas and suggestions for improvement, even if I don't get back to you as often as I should. Love you all!**


	170. December 19

_Echolalia__: the imitation by a baby of the vocal sounds produced by others._

**December 19, 1973**

They didn't notice the first snowfall until half the world was blanketed in white. When Andromeda had closed the curtains against the radiating chill, a howling wind was blowing a barren and dull landscape. When Ted scooped their ten-month-old daughter from her cot and gone to stand in the window, everything was sparkling with frost and flakes as large as sickles were pouring from the sky. It had come without their knowing, soft and gentle, and made everything that had been ugly beautiful.

Dora squealed with delight as Ted exclaimed over the snowflakes, holding her up close to the pane, snuggled warmly against his chest. Ted began to sing in his sweet, mellow baritone, winking at Andromeda who watched the two of them profiled against the bright window with reserved amusement and exasperation.

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful," Ted sang, stretching out a large hand to her. Andromeda pointedly busied herself with her quill. "But the fire is so delightful." Ted wrapped a warm arm around Andromeda's shoulders, pulling her gently from her chair. "And since we've no place to go…." He spun her in an elegant twirl, her long green robes flying out around her knees.

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow," she finished obligingly, a reluctant smile seeping across her face as she ended up tucked against her husband's chest, their daughter between them.

He kissed her forehead and sent her back to work with a final flourish. Andromeda returned to her papers with a grin that wouldn't slip, listening to Dora babbling away in the background. When had she started that constant stream of nonsense? Andromeda lost track of her work again, realizing that her daughter had a voice, a sweet, chirping voice with distinct hollows and twinges of accent all her own. It had started without her noticing, soft and gentle, and was making everything beautiful.

**A/N: Very short, I know, but it is another update! :) I hadn't written them in a while and I found I missed them. It snowed here today, and my friend and I went walking at midnight in it and made a snowman in some stranger's front yard and swung in the park as the blizzard started up and sang Winter Wonder Land on the way home to take our mind off the fact that our fingers were so cold they hurt terribly. So, fluffy mood :) Hope you enjoyed it, short as it was!**


	171. December 20

_Counterblast__: an unrestrained and vigorously powerful response to an attacking statement._

**December 20, 2019**

Albus didn't know exactly how it happened. One second he was sliding open the narrow door to the train loo, swaying with the motion of the locomotive carrying them home for the Christmas holidays, the next, something had slammed into him so hard, he was left gasping. His glasses were knocked askew as he was shoved back into the tiny cubicle, and the door slammed shut of its own accord. His eyes roved over empty air as he plunged a hand into his pocket for his wand, panic whining in his ears (this didn't happen anymore, this didn't happen thisdidn'thappen).

Something slammed him against the wall, a hand he couldn't see pinning him by the throat, and he quite forgot about his wand as he tried to pry the long, bony fingers away from his windpipe. He could hear heavy breathing, felt hot, rank breath on his face, and then a low, gravelly voice.

"I've got a message for your daddy and his new pureblood discrimination laws."

And then a fist was rammed into the side of Albus's face. He heard his glasses crunch, felt shards of glass bite into his cheek as light and dark popped like flashbulbs before him. Dimly, he heard the door open and close again, and slid down the wall, dizzy and trying to comprehend what had just happened.

XxX

"Albus!... what _happened_?"

Unwillingly, Albus raised his head. The bustle of the train station swelled around them. His father was hurrying toward him, alarm and concern all over his face. He practically felt James and Lily exchange looks behind his back as he mumbled, "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Harry repeated incredulously, taking Al's shoulder in one hand and gently touching the purple bruise rising brilliantly around his left eye. Rose had mended his glasses and Lily had offered her handkerchief to clean up the cuts from the broken glass, but there wasn't anything they could do about the black eye.

"I just got into a fight, alright?" Albus said angrily, pulling away from his father's grip.

Harry looked skeptically toward James, Lily, and Rose for confirmation, but none of them said a word. "Since when do you get into fights?"

"Can we just go?" Albus asked, wheeling his trolley around.

He knew it wasn't over, even though his father took Lily's trolley and followed him with no further inquiry. Albus could feel the silent conversation he was having with Hermione behind his back. He shot Rose, who kept glancing anxiously at him as she pushed her own trunk next to his, a warning look, reminding her of the promise he'd extracted from her, Hugo, Scorpius, and his brother and sister. He wasn't going to give his assailant the satisfaction of having his message delivered.

**A/N: A random little update for you all because the idea struck me. To be honest, this could stretch out into a one-shot… but for now we'll leave it at that. I know it's short, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Alohamora, you're up next with the Black sisters and then there'll be some Marauders because I think Louey06 is my last dedication for the breaking 1,000 reviews promise. I haven't forgotten about you! **

**Love you all!**


	172. December 24

_Glissade__: to perform a sliding or gliding step._

**December 24, 2020**

With a final flourish of Ginny's wand, the last roll of garland twined itself around the Burrow's battered wooden banister, knotted in place with a large, velvet bow that wouldn't have been caught dead in Ginny's house but which her mother liked.

"Woah," Scorpius murmured as little candles burst into light and silver baubles shimmered into existence all along it.

"Oi, watch the ladder," Albus reminded him, wobbling dangerously as he strung tinsel along the curtain rods. Scorpius hastily returned his attention to the precarious, ancient wooden ladder they'd found in Al's granddad's toolshed.

"Careful," Ginny warned glancing over at them. She flicked her wand again and the tinsel flew out of Al's hand and looped itself along the rod.

"No fair," Albus said indignantly as his mother reached up to help him down.

"I thought Dad told you to leave the high stuff to us."

"But that's the _cool _stuff."

"Yeah, yeah, anything to get a few feet off the ground, eh?" she pushed her fingers though his hair affectionately. "Well we're nearly done and Gran'll probably have biscuits waiting. They really appreciate you helping out," she added to both of them.

"Gin! Wanna come help me with this?" came Harry's muffled, breathless voice from the back garden.

"Twenty-one years to the day since we got engaged back there and he still can't manage on his own for ten minutes," she muttered, hurrying through the kitchen.

"What're they doing?" Scropius inquired curiously. He had never spent Christmas Eve with Al's family before. Last year he'd come for Christmas tea and thought that was chaotic, but that was nothing to the run-up.

"Trying to catch a gnome for the tree," Albus explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"The tree –?"

Al smirked. "Angel on top's always a gnome, stunned and stuffed in a fluffy pink tutu. Family tradition."

"And your aunt, head of the mistreatment of magical creatures committee, is okay with that?"

Albus pressed a finger to his lips. "It's kind of a secret. Not even Gran knows."

"Anyone ever tell you your family's mad?"

Albus laughed. "You only know the half of it. I better go help out. You know, they're not as young and spry as they used to be. The folks might sprain a hip. Then we'll be done and we can meet Rose and Hugo for sledding."

He ran off toward the back garden, leaving Scorpius on his own in the cramped sitting room. Feeling suddenly awkward, Scorpius shoved his hands in his pockets and wondered over to the stairs to get a better look at the decorations. His mother festooned the manor with all kinds of lavish ornaments and at least a dozen freshly cut trees, but they were all antique, traditional, magical ornaments that were probably bought to show off the family gold in the eighteenth century. Scorpius liked the bright, simple, homemade ornaments that filled the Burrow.

He idly turned to examine the pictures that lined the zigzagging staircase, noticing that they seemed to have multiplied since he was last here. Usually Molly Weasley kept a procession of baby pictures hanging above updated photos of each of her grandchildren, wedding pictures for each of her married children, and a few faded old snapshots of people Scorpius didn't recognize or dare to ask about. But now photos ran like a timeline up the stairs.

The first place was an empty frame marked with tomorrow's date in gold numbers along the bottom, but snapshots had already been stuck around it. The one on the right was of Al and his sister decorating their tree. Teddy sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the picture, levitating the star up to the top, and James leaned against his knees, eating gingerbread. A date in the corner branded it as only a few days old. The next shot was of Rose and Hugo arranged back to back in front of their fireplace, a book titled _A Christmas Carol _open on Rose's knee. The next one showed Roxanne and Fred dressed in suits of armor, fencing in front of the shop with spears of candy cane. Then it was Molly and Lucy in matching, dark blue dress robes, sitting stiffly on a bench in their front hall. And on the far left was a close-up of Victoire, Dominique, and Louis, all squeezed together so their faces fit in the frame, all laughing.

Christmas cards, Scorpius realized. He stepped up a step to look at the next set. The big frame was filled with the group photo they'd taken the last year, December 25, 2019 shining on the bottom edge of the frame. Scorpius found himself in the bottom corner, squeezed in between Al and Rose. The sofa had been elongated, an armchair shoved in for Teddy and Victoire to share, and the rest all scrunched down in front or crammed in behind. There were five more snapshots stuck along the top of the frame. The Potters and Teddy on a toboggan, Rose and Hugo making Christmas cookies, Fred and Roxanne _as _Christmas cookies. Molly and Lucy were in the exact same pose as the year before except in dark green. Victoire, Dominique, and Louis were all stretched out on the beach in their picture, making snow angels in the sand on what was clearly a blazing summer day.

Scorpius went up another step to find nearly the same picture. The big group photo was shuffled around a bit, and he wasn't in it. The snapshots were of different scenes (except for Molly and Lucy, who were just in red rather than green and looking slightly younger). The next set of pictures was more or less the same. Scorpius slowly glided back through the years, each arrangement more or less the same as the ones next to it, but steadily things changed. Children got smaller, gray hair faded back to vivid red, lines smoothed out.

Scorpius grinned at the picture labeled 2008. Al must've been two, laughing madly as he stood up on his father's knee, clinging to his neck to stay upright. Rose had a lion's mane of red curls and was dressed in snowman pajamas. Lily was just a chubby baby cradled in her grandmother's lap and Ginny was pinning James's arms to his side in a hug, which he did not seem thrilled about. In the next picture, Lily had vanished completely and Ginny rested a plate of Christmas cake and what looked like pickles on a protuberant belly.

The snapshots began changing, too. Harry and Ginny each held a son, Teddy between them, round-faced and gap-toothed with his hair striped red and green. Percy's wife joined their daughters on the bench. Children began disappearing like raindrops sliding down a window. In 2007, Hugo was nothing more than an indistinct bundle, and in 2006, he and Roxanne had both gone, and Audrey and Lucy, a tiny, winkled newborn, were added in a separate polaroid stuck in the corner. In 2005, she, Rose, and Albus were gone, too, and in 2004 the picture was a lot less crowded.

In 2003, Ron and Hermione's snapshot was a wedding picture, Harry and Ginny's was a filmstrip from what Scorpius was pretty sure from his Muggle Studdies class was called a photo booth. By now he'd reached the second landing. Everyone fit on or behind the sofa without it being elongated. They were… _so _much younger. Bill and Fleur, each balancing a daughter on their laps, were the only ones who looked like they could really be parents. George and Angelina must have just been engaged because Angelina was flaunting a glittering ring in their snapshot, and George, kissing her neck, didn't have a ring at all.

They looked… well, like kids. It was bizarre.

Scorpius took another gliding step, watching as Dominique and Molly quickly disappeared. Teddy and Victoire, the only two children left, stuck out like the very first buds of spring in a flower patch. Angelina dropped from the snapshot, replaced by Charlie, who had an arm flung around a rather tipsy-looking George. Scorpius found her on the very edge of the big picture, but by the next one, she'd vanished completely. Gone as if she'd never been dreamed there in the first place.

The pictures had changed, Scorpius thought, leaning forward to look more closely. The smiles were less genuine, but it wasn't the cheesy quality of posed pictures, it was an almost pained sort of forced joy. There were obvious gaps in the group clustered together, but it wasn't the children or Audrey and Angelina who were missing. The house was decorated and everyone wore knitted jumpers, but it didn't look like a holiday picture anymore.

Scorpius paused in front of 1998. Mrs. Weasley looked like she'd been crying. Harry was hunched at one end of the sofa in between Ron and Hermione, looking startlingly young, pale, and almost ill. Ginny was at the other end, tucked under Charlie's arm. Andromeda, clutching Teddy to her chest, was half-hidden in shadow at the very edge of the picture as if she wasn't sure she should be in it. Even though she was twenty-two years younger in it, she looked much older to Scorpius. There were no snapshots, and George was entirely absent.

The next set of photos was almost as grim. There was no big group shot for 1997. Instead, three snapshots filled the big frame. One showed George and a boy identical to him in every way except that he had two ears on either side of Ginny, who was wearing a Santa hat. Their smiles looked as forced as before. Another photo was of Bill and Fleur waving from the door of Shell Cottage, which was glittering with frost. The last one had Charlie standing in a field with a great dragon curled up behind him, toasting the camera with a foaming mug of butterbeer and wearing a Weasley jumper with a fat C knitted on the front. Percy, Ron, Harry, and Hermione were not represented at all.

A transition had been made. There were once more children in these photos, but they were not the children Scorpius was used to taking center stage. Bill lost his scars, George gained his ear and Scorpius stopped being able to tell exactly which one he was. People came and went and the photos wavered from big group pictures to a collage of snapshots, the darkness lifting the further form 1998 he got. By the middle of the next staircase, even Harry, now smaller and more innocent-looking than Scorpius had believed he could be, disappeared and it was just the seven Weasleys.

They were arranged in various winter scenes up another staircase, just like Al and his cousins three floor below. Each year they got smaller and younger until they, too, started disappearing, popping out of existence like popcorn in reverse. At the top of the last staircase it was 1975. Bill and Charlie grinned toothily, sitting on the snow-covered garden fence. There was no weight of responsibility, no toddlers for them to wrangle or babies they had to hold. It was just the two f them, and even they were rapidly shrinking until Molly and Arthur joined them, almost unrecognizable with flaming hair and youthful energy, rolling on the floor with their sons.

Scorpius turned to face the last wall. There was one last picture there, a crowd of redheads all crammed together in faded and yellowing ink. Scorpius didn't recognize any of them. But stuck on the edge of the frame was a snapshot of two teenagers, no children in their laps or rings on their fingers. The only reason he knew they were Molly and Arthur in 1969 was because he could see their children and grandchildren in their faces. They were just a snapshot in someone else's family photo.

All of this, the fifty years of Christmases Scorpius had sloughed through had come from that snapshot. Turning to look back down the twisting staircases they lined, he felt slightly dizzy.

"Hey, there you are!' Al appeared around the corner and took the stairs two at a time. "Thought the ghoul might've gotten you."

He reached Scorpius and clapped him on the shoulder. He peered more closely at Scorpius's face. "Hey, what's up?"

"Nothing. Ready to go?"

"Yeah, Rosie'll give us an earful if we're much later."

They took off down the stairs, racing to the bottom and raising an almighty clamor on the creaky wood. But Scorpius slowed in front of the 2019 picture long enough to find himself edged into the corner. He ran a finger over his white-blond hair standing out so vividly among all the red and black. A part of someone else's picture. For now.

**A/N: This is ridiculously long for this story. Merry Christmas!**


	173. December 25

_Tidings__: news, information, or intelligence._

**December 25, 1968**

There was a beat of frozen silence, and then at once they both tumbled into an apology.

"Arthur – I've acted like a child, I'm sorry, I am –"

"I've been an idiot, Molly. I shouldn't have –"

They stopped and there was another beat of silence before they both smiled.

"We're a pair, aren't we?" Molly laughed. "Come in out of the snow and we'll begin this making up business properly."

She stood back, but Arthur shook his head. "I mean, yes, I want that," he said hastily as her eyes widened, "but Molly – there's something I have to tell you before I can come in, something I realized. It's very important." He took a great breath and let it go. "I love you, Molly Prewett. I think that I have for a very long time, and I think that I will for a very long time. I know it because even when you drive me mad and you're the last person I want to see, you're still the fire person I want to see. There's very little you can do about it, and I thought you just ought to know that that's where I stand before you let me in."

"Oh, Arthur," she sighed, shaking her head. And then she flung her arms around him.

**December 25, 1976**

"Sirius is pregnant."

Grace and Harold Potter, herded onto the sofa by their agitated son, exchanged raised eyebrows.

"It's James's and I'm keeping it," Sirius told them from his perch on the end of the banister, placing a hand over his stomach.

"Alright," Harold Potter said slowly, exchanging another look with his wife.

"Now, there's good news and bad news," James went on, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Is there?" Grace Potter inquired, raising a sharp eyebrow at her son.

"The bad news is that we won't be able to have Christmas dinner today. The good news is that Sirius isn't actually pregnant. We made it up to keep everything in perspective."

"You didn't really!' Harold exclaimed with mock outrage.

"James," Grace asked dangerously. "Why is it we can't have Christmas dinner?"

"Sirius and I might have… accidentally… charred the kitchen a little. A lot. Nearly burned it down. You'll be able to set it right, I'm sure, but all the food's gone."

His parents both shot to their feet pushing past him for the kitchen doors.

"But the important thing to remember here is that you're not going to be grandparents. Think about that heart-stopping moment and how much dumber we could have been!" James called after them.

**December 25, 1985**

"Hermione?" Megan Granger knelt beside her daughter. "What's happened to the china angel Mummy asked you not to touch?"

"Nothing," Hermione told her, guilt painted all across her face.

Megan held out her hand and Hermione slowly pulled her fist from the folds of her dress, angels' wings poking between her fingers. But when she deposited the porcelain figure in her mother's hands, it was smooth and whole, completely unharmed. Both of their eyes widened.

"Nothing!" Hermione cried gleefully and scampered away to enjoy her narrow miss.

Megan stared at the perfectly pristine ornament in her palm. "I saw it shatter," she said dumbly, looking up at her husband.

Paul Granger pulled off his glasses to clean them on his sleeve. "Our daughter's special, isn't she? And not just in that she's beautiful and ours."

"Yes, I think she is," Megan murmured and slipped the angel into her pocket.

**December 25, 1997**

Tears glistened on Molly's cheeks as she pressed her hands over her mouth. "But how do you know? How do you know he's alright?"

"I've seen him, Mum," Bill told her, rounding the table to put his arms around his mother's shaking shoulders. "He was at Shell Cottage."

"He's –?"

"He's gone now; it was only for a minute. But we saw him and he's fine. Just fine."

"But why didn't he come to _me_?" Molly demanded, gulping down a sob. "I'm his _mother_."

Bill closed his eyes. Perhaps this hadn't been a good idea. "He knew you lot were being watched, that's all. But he wanted me to tell you he's alright and that you shouldn't worry."

"I'll always worry." More tears dripped off the edge of her chin. "But right now he's alright." Her eyes closed and her shoulders relaxed as if she were wrapping herself in the news. "He's alright."

**December 25, 1999**

"You're _what_?" Neville asked, freezing with his drink halfway to his lips.

"They're getting married," Luna repeated for him as she got up to enfold Ginny in a tight hug. "Oh, that's so wonderful!"

"Blimey," Neville muttered, sounding breathless. He set his drink down with a thud. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Nope," Harry laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I already told him he was barking," Ron assured them, leaning back in his chair and slipping an arm around Hermione's shoulders. He gulped down a swig of butterbeer. "But he was dead-set on asking her Christmas Eve."

"Well… Well! Congratulations!" Neville beamed, getting up to hug them both as well. "When are you planning for?"

"No idea," Harry told him cheerfully.

"Where will you have it done?" Luna asked.

"Haven't even thought about it," Ginny grinned.

"All we know is that it's happening," Harry said happily.

"Blimey," Neville repeated, shaking his head a little. He raised his glass to them. "Happy Christmas."

**December 25, 2002**

Draco Malfoy unfolded the note and read it again. _Wait for me beside the bookcase to get your gift – your secret Santa_. The party unfolded around him with its usual swaying elegance, the scratchy spinning of classical Christmas music and the rustle of rich dress robes filling the air, all the high-society children he'd grown up with pairing off in slightly newer combinations. It was all familiar and routine. Except for the note.

"Happy Christmas, handsome."

Draco spun around. Astoria Greengrass was inches away from him, smiling that perfect, pearly smile of hers. He took a step back.

"Happy Christmas. Did you… write this?" he asked, holding out the note.

Astoria nodded. "Actually," she said, inching closer. "I have a confession. I asked Tracy especially for your name this year."

Draco's mouth had gone rather dry. "Why?"

"Because," she slid her hands onto his shoulders, "I already had a present for you."

"Oh – really?"

She nodded. "Mm-hm. Your gift this year is a secret. Can you keep a secret, Draco Malfoy?"

"I was never very good at it, no," he murmured.

She rose up on her toes so that their noses nearly touched. "Well, I suppose once I give it to you, it will be yours to do as you like with. The secret is that I. Fancy. You. I hope you like it."

Her lips were against his before he quite knew what was happening, then she'd pulled back, flashed her perfect smile at him, and was gone into the crowd.

**December 25, 2006**

Ginny's hand was in his as they waited beneath the harshly bright lights. The corridor was drafty and smelled too much like disinfectant. They could hear wailing from somewhere. It seemed like he could always hear wailing here. He shifted restlessly in the uncomfortable chair and Ginny squeezed his fingers.

"It's passed midnight," he told her, looking at his watch. "It's Christmas Day."

"Good day for miracles, then," she said.

"Do you think he needs a miracle?" he asked, suddenly jumpy.

She put a soothing hand on his shoulder. "It'll be alright. It's always alright."

He slumped back and let his head clunk against the wall. "I know. It's just –"

The door they'd been staring at for the past twenty minutes swung open suddenly and a healer swept toward them. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter?"

They both shot to their feet at once.

"Your son is going to be fine," he assured them calmly, albeit wearily. "Just a standard infection. They're common in preemies, at least for the first year. He'll be home to unwrap his Christmas gifts in the morning."

Harry sagged visibly. "Thank you."

**December 25, 2029**

"I'm back," Lily told him, dropping her snow-covered bags on the kitchen floor.

"For good?" Hugo asked skeptically, closing the door behind her.

"For good," Lily confirmed.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Hugo leaned forward to hug her hard. "Good."

**December 25, 2054**

"It's a boy," John announced exuberantly as he toppled out of the fireplace, and the packed sitting room, already expanded to twice its normal size and still spilling over to the kitchen and up the stairs, erupted in cheers. Ginny reached up to hug him and a couple of Louis's sons had started whooping and whistling.

Arthur lifted Molly's hand to his lips. She looked over at him. "Well, Arthur Weasley," she said as loudly as she could over the clamor. "It's been a long time. Do you still love me?"

He chuckled. "Always, dear. Happy Christmas."

**A/N: Ah… so this sort of grew. I tried to cut it off, but it just kept going. It runs along the same vein as last year, but I hope it's different enough. A bit late, but I hope all of you had wonderful, wonderful holidays and thank you SO much for your lovely comments! Love you all! Good tidings to you and a happy new year! **


	174. January 6

_Sprat__: a small or inconsequential person or thing._

**January 6, 1980 **

It had taken him nine years to figure it out – no, to admit it to himself. He'd always _known_, deep down, in the core of himself where only truths lie. He was _nothing_ to them. He had always been nothing. Glory, heroism, brotherhood, it didn't rub off. He had come into the world as a tagalong, an extra, an unplanned, unasked-for little nuisance only his mother could ever grow fond of.

It had taken him only seven years to figure that out in his own family. Why had it taken him so long with them?

In the mirror behind the bar, he watched the way James flung his arm around Sirius's neck, the way Lily beamed to see the slow smile Remus hid behind his drink, the way the laughter filled their faces and they were glad, in the middle of hell, just to be in each other's company. He had never once in spired those things in any of them. In any_one_.

"Is he still sulking?" he heard Sirius ask loudly, clearly meant for him to hear.

James craned his neck around to find Peter hunched over the bar. "Come on, Pete! Come back to us!" he called.

"We miss you!" Sirius shouted, one hand extended to Peter, the other over his heart. "We haven't got anyone to get us drinks!"

And for the first time, Peter let himself hear the mockery under the words for what it was. Not friendly joking, not even cruel jabs. Just plain, thoughtless mockery because that was all he was to them. These were the people he was putting his life down for, for whom he'd nearly gotten killed half a dozen times.

_Why? _

He had been so busy trying not to be terrified out of his mind, to do what James and Sirius were doing because that was all he'd ever tried to do, that he had never stopped to ask himself the question. Because they were popular? Because people would like him if they liked him? Because they would stop him from getting picked on?

Things had changed since he was eleven. But he was still the annoying little tagalong he'd always been.

**A/N: I've decided to do a set. January 7****th**** and 8****th**** will belong to James and Remus when I get around to them (and I WILL) :) Also, if anybody is still keeping tabs on this story, (I really hope you are despite my utter lack of updates) I've put up a new poll and would love some votes for it! Anyway, love you all! **


	175. January 7

_Cimmerian__: very dark, gloomy, deep. _

**January 7, 1976**

Remus had never been in the Shrieking Shack during the day. He arrived under cover of darkness and was retrieved (or limped back on his own) in the faint gray light of dawn, and he had never spent much time looking around. Even in the middle of the afternoon the gloom was thick, the edges of the room foggy with shadows, but the weary light that managed to push its way through the cracks threw the room's scars into much sharper relief.

It was hard to tell what damage had been his and what had already been here. It had never been new, built only five years ago already falling apart. There had never been glass in the windows, the doors never made to open, the hearth never to be lit. It looked like a place that had once harbored life and warmth, but he knew better.

He had almost killed someone here, two someones, he thought, tracing long gouges in the rotting wood with his fingers. One of them one of his best friends. It wasn't supposed to happen, he knew, would never have happened if Sirius hadn't…. But he had, and if it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else, some_thing_ else. Because Remus had been foolish and reckless and deluded.

For all but a few hours a month, this house was not a dangerous place, but that didn't mean anyone could live here, and, as the locked doors attested, it didn't pretend otherwise.

Remus took a deep breath of the stale, dusty air and forced himself to face a truth he had long been avoiding. He was a monster. It was not all he was, in fact he was much, much more human than monster, but that did not change the fact that he _was _still a monster. And he would have to earn his humanity every day for the rest of his life.

**A/N: So this is an old tune, but I thought I'd sing it anyway since we're in the marauders' epiphany series. Hopefully not too angsty for you? I feel like the Shrieking Shack is the perfect metaphor for Remus in some ways, the way the damage shows so much more during the day, the way it keeps its doors and windows boarded up. At the very least I think **_**he **_**sees it as a metaphor for himself. **

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed and thankyouthankyouthankyou for the responses for last chapter! You guys are amazing :) **


	176. January 8

_Profligacy__: reckless extravagance._

**January 8, 1979**

"What do you think?" James asked, spinning in a circle in the middle of the large stone hall.

The others looked around dubiously at the cracked stones and boarded windows, at the birds nesting in the rafters two stories above their heads and the pains missing from the round, stained glass windows. The doors were all missing and a brisk wind whipped miniature snowdrifts across the floor.

"It's nice," Sirius said, folding his hands behind his back and nodding appraisingly at the cracking walls. "For a _bat_, maybe. You can't be serious."

"No, you are," came the swift response, and Sirius scowled.

"Only I'm allowed to make that joke."

"You want to get married _here_?" Peter asked, kicking at a loose stone and jumping half a foot when the noise sent a mouse skittering across the floor.

"Yeah, look," James said, bouncing a little and rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. "New doors, fix the windows, levitate about a billion candles, a few exterminating spells for the rodent problem – or just set Padfoot loose on them, or Pete can try to persuade them to leave politely – and we've practically got Buckingham Palace. What d'you think, Moony? You've got me on this, right?"

He looked pleadingly toward Remus.

"I dunno, James…" Remus said uncertainly, feeling the cavernousness of the space around them. "I mean, for one thing, how are you planning on protecting a place like this? Large crowds aren't exactly advised these days."

"We'll make it Unplottable," James supplied. "Use the Fidelious Charm if we have to. I'll be the Secretkeeper and I can handwrite the invitations."

"That's a hell of a lot of work to do for just one night," Sirius frowned. "Not to mention, who are we going to get to do the charm? Dumbledore? None of us can manage that."

"And how much does a place like this cost?" Remus asked. "A castle in the Scottish hills? For what? Twenty people, maybe?"

"If I wanted to be practical, I'd elope," James snapped, suddenly and uncharacteristically frustrated. Remus gave him a reproachful look and James returned it with an apologetic one. "It doesn't matter how much it costs," he went on more calmly. "I don't want to give Lily a few hasty signatures at the ministry or rush through vows in my mum's sitting room. I want to give her something amazing."

"I think she'd just be happy married to you safely," Remus pointed out quietly.

"Maybe, but…" he wrung his hands and started pacing, a sure sign of agitation, they all knew. "It's so mad, all of it," he burst out, running his hands through his hair and making it stand on end more than usual. "People are dashing through getting married and having babies all in secret, not leaving their houses to celebrate birthdays or anniversaries or _anything_, and it's like everything just keeps getting more and more terrible and the good stuff should get better to balance it out, but instead it just sort of gets erased, and I don't want that!

"I want to get married to the woman I'm so madly in love with it scares me shitless and I want everyone we care about to see it. I want to party with my friends good and hard while we're all still here to do it. And I don't want her to just be happy, I want her to be radiant. I want it to be something she can carry with her for the rest of her life because who the hell knows how many more chances we're gonna get to be happy?"

James stood in the middle of the room, breathing rather hard. They were all staring at him, mouths slightly open. None of them had ever come so close to admitting their own mortality out loud like that.

"Well… yeah, when you say it like that," Sirius muttered into the silence. Even the birds seemed to have been rendered speechless.

"If it's what you want, and you think it's best," Remus said hesitantly. "I s'pose it's up to you to decide. And Lily. Don't go doing this without talking to her, first."

The grin James flashed was only a ghost of his usual one, but it was still at least forty watts. "I don't have a death wish, Remus, believe me. So you'll help?"

"Of course we will," Peter piped up now that the shouting was over.

"Yeah, yeah, you just wait 'til _I _get married, Potter. You can pay this debt off then," Sirius told him.

"Good, because there's a _shit-ton _to do in the next two weeks."

"Two weeks? James, Two weeks!"

"I'm gonna kill you, Potter!"

**A/N: There you have it, folks. And James Potter makes four. I dunno, whenever I've got James around, the scene seems to light up twice as bright. Not that there weren't some nice, weighty moments here, just, I dunno. James Potter, everyone. His fair share of pessimism went to his son, I think. **

**Anyway, love you all! **


	177. January 9

_Heterotelic__: having the purpose of its existence or occurrence apart from itself._

**January 9, 1980**

The dream was a terrible one, although Lily did not know exactly why. It always began with her looking for something very important, walking from room to room in the small house and growing more and more frantic when she did not find it. James followed her, usually silent or sometimes saying her name softly, sadly, as if watching her broke his heart, but he would not help her look no matter how many times she asked.

The last room would always be the second bedroom because they kept nothing in there but an extra bed and a few of the boys' clothes. But when Lily pushed open the door, the room would be empty and for some reason this would ignite a horror in her, a devastation that seemed to empty her from the inside out. Sunlight was pouring into the room, bouncing off the yellow walls and across the bare carpet, and she would scream and run forward as if to find something there, just invisible. James would take her in his arms, catch her and murmur things into her hair that she never could make out, but he didn't understand and she couldn't believe that _he _didn't understand and would writhe away from him and pound the carpet where there should have been _something _and think _I wish it were me, it should have been me. If you're doing this, take me, too!_

She would always wake crying, her pillow soaked with tears. It was the sixth time she'd had this dream since Christmas. Lily pushed herself up in bed, shaking, the sheets clinging to her like cold waterweeds. She glanced sideways, but James was still sleeping, splayed across the mattress with his face crushed into the side of her pillow. She smiled a little, wanting to let him cheer her up as he almost always did, but something about her felt strange and the dream still lingered here in the dark.

Lily pulled her dressing gown from the end of the bed and slipped out the door. She checked the second bedroom, but the bed and the dresser were both still there, the window locked securely. She ran a hand over the white walls, then shook herself and went into the bathroom. She slipped her dressing gown off and turned the tap on to wash the salty tears from her cheeks, hoping the cool water would soothe her, but the moment she bent over the basin, a wave of nausea rolled over her. Without even turning the tap off, she dove for the toilet.

When she had finished, Lily leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. She wanted to wrince her mouth out, but the sink felt a very long ways away form down here. Instead, she opened the cupboard, looking for a washcloth she could douse without standing up. There were none, but a pink box taking up an entire corner of the cupboard caught her eye. A pregnancy test. One of the ones she had bought back in August, when she and James had thought they might be ready for a baby. But they had tried for four months, and nothing, and after the Prewetts' funeral the idea had seemed childish and ill-thought-out.

Was there a chance? Yes, but it was slim. And because she didn't want this obtrusive pink box sitting in her cupboard, staring her down each time she opened it, Lily opened the kit.

Lily woke slowly the next morning to somebody rubbing her hair. Her limbs felt very heavy and her eyes were sore. She burrowed deeper into the blankets.

"Lily?" James sounded wired (probably because he had slept like a dead person last night, she thought somewhat resentfully), and she was not quite up for a wired James this early. "Lily." The hand was gone from her hair and someone was poking her in the back. "I know you're awake. You can't ignore me now that you're finally awake. Come _on_, I've been waiting all sunrise. My self-restraint is almost gone."

She groaned and pushed his hands away. He let out a frustrated noise and the mattress shook as he bounced off of it. "Fine, I'll be _inhumanly _patient, but only because you're pregnant."

The door had closed with a soft snap behind him before Lily fully registered his words. Then the blankets went flying.

"I'm _what_?" she called, wrenching open the door and using the frame for support.

James was halfway-down the stairs. He turned, bemused. "Pregnant. I saw that barmy muggle chemistry thing on the counter. The box said a ring meant –"

But before he could finish, Lily dove for the bathroom door. Sure enough, just visible in the slanting mirror beneath the test tube was a distinct, dark ring.

When James gently pushed open the door a minute later, it was to find her sitting cross-legged on the cold tiled floor, one hand resting over her abdomen.

"You didn't know?" he asked, dropping down next to her.

Slowly, she shook her head. "The results take two hours. I was _tired_."

He laughed a little and pulled her into his lap. "Then let me be the first to tell you that you, Lily Potter, are expecting." He grinned then, a smile that he probably couldn't have scraped off his face if he'd tried, although it dimmed a little when she didn't reciprocate. "You're happy about this, right? This is happy news, isn't it?"

"Yes," she breathed finally and threw her arms around James with such force they almost fell backward. "Yes!"

And quite suddenly, the terror of the dream seamed to make sense.

**A/N: And now Lily, because the word seemed like hers. I had to do some research for this one. 1970's era pregnancy tests were not nearly as convenient as our modern gadgets. This didn't turn out as internal as I expected it to, but hopefully it all ties together with the word alright anyway. **

**It's been lovely hearing from you all! Lots of love! **


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